One day, on the track, they came to a place where an old Scottish couple kept a general store and shanty. They camped alongside the road, and Smith was just starting up to the house to beg supplies when Steelman cried:
'Here!―hold on. Now where do you think you're going to?'
'Why, I'm going to try and chew the old party's lug, of course. We'll be out of tucker in a couple of days,' said Smith.
Steelman sat down on a stump in a hopeless, discouraged sort of way.
'It's no use,' he said, regarding Smith with mingled reproach and disgust. 'It's no use. I might as well give it best. I can see that it's only waste of time trying to learn you anything. Will I ever be able to knock some gumption into your thick skull? After all the time and trouble and pains I've took with your education, you hain't got any more sense than to go and mug a business like that! When will you learn sense? Hey? After all, ISmith, you're a born mug!'
He always called Smith a 'mug' when he was particularly wild at him, for it hurt Smith more than anything else.
'There's only two classes in the world, spielers and mugs and you're a mug, Smith.'
'What have I done, anyway?' asked Smith helplessly. 'That's all I want to know.'
Steelman wearily rested his brow on his hand.
'That will do, Smith,' he said listlessly; 'don't say another word, old man; it'll only make my head
