“My name is David Trimble,” said I, “and I come from the mountains.”
He laughed.
“Mr. David Trimble-from-the-mountains, who the devil am I?”
“I don't know, sir,” and I started to go away, not wishing to disturb him.
“Avast!” he cried. “Stand fast. See that you remember that.”
“I'm not here of my free will, sir, but because my father wishes it. And I'll betray nothing.”
Then he stared at me.
“How old did you say you were?” he demanded.
“I didn't say,” said I.
“And you are of Scotch descent?” said he.