“We have some muckers already,” retorted Walter hotly. He was angry at the reflection upon his choice perhaps even more than at the slight cast upon Dan. He glanced hastily at his roommate, and from Dan’s unchanged manner he concluded that he either did not know what a mucker was or did not apply the epithet to himself.
“Who’s a mucker?” demanded Gus as he stopped and faced Walter. “Do you mean to tell me that I——”
“I am not mentioning any names,” broke in Walter with a sneer. “When a fellow is a mucker he doesn’t have to run around and wave a banner. It is usually stamped on his face. If it isn’t, give him a chance to open his mouth and he’ll do the rest.”
The boys laughed at Walter’s retort and as they looked at Gus it was plain that their sympathies were not with him. Several glanced slyly at Dan, but to all appearances he was the least-moved boy in the group.
“There isn’t a mucker in the Tait School,” said Gus savagely, “or at least there hasn’t been up to to-day. Every fellow pays his way like a man and he has something behind him too!”
“What do you mean?” asked Walter tauntingly, aroused still more by the manifest sympathy of his companions. “How far back does a fellow have to go not to be a mucker? Now, would you think that a fellow whose father stuck pigs——”
“Say that again,” broke in Gus, his face livid and his fist drawn back, “and I’ll show you.”
“Yes,” taunted Walter, “that is the way some fellows take to show that they are not muckers.”
It was common report in the school that the father of Gus Kiggins, who now was a prosperous pork-packer, had begun his successful career as one of the men employed by the establishment in which he now was a partner. It was a well-known fact that he had been one of the “hands” whose sole occupation was slaughtering hogs.