“Here, you boys! No quarreling!” said the manager of the goat wagons, a Mr. Marshall. “You’ll all do as I say, and I won’t have any picking on this boy. Business isn’t any too good, and I want you all to do your best.”
Mike said nothing to the other boys, but he was not afraid to take his own part.
The other goats looked at Lightfoot, and one, hitched to the wagon driven by the boy who had spoken a bit crossly to Mike, said to Lightfoot:
“Where did you come from?”
“From the high rocks,” answered Lightfoot.
“Do you mean the mountains?” asked another goat.
“I don’t know, but it’s over that way,” said Lightfoot, and he pointed with his horns in the direction of Mike’s home.
“Oh, he means the rocks by the squatters’ shanties!” exclaimed the goat who had first spoken. “Why, we can’t have anything to do with goats like that! We give rides to well born children. This goat comes from a very poor home indeed.
“What right have you got to come here among us?” he asked Lightfoot.