"Is who going to run?" asked Ben Badger.

"That little mucker, Prescott?" insisted Fred.

"Yes," returned Badger, shortly.

"Gridley H.S. is getting worse and worse," growled Ripley.
"Athletics ought to be confined to the best sort of fellows
in the school. These little muckers, these nobodies, ought
to be kept out of everything in which the real fellows take part."

"Don't be a cad, Ripley," retorted Badger, half angrily.

"Oh, I'm no great stickler for caste, and that sort of thing,"
Fred grumbled on. "I'm democratic enough, when it comes to
that, and I associate with a good many fellows whose fathers don't
stand as high in the community as mine does."

"That's really kind of you," mimicked Ben Badger, with another
look of disgust at the rich lawyer's son. "Of course, you feel
just as though anything that your father may have accomplished
puts you in a rather more elect lot."

"Of course, it does," retorted Fred, drawing himself up stiffly.
"Still, you know as well as anyone does, Badger, that I'm not
stuck up just on account of family or position. I'm ready to
give the friend's hand to any of the right sort of fellows. But
what is that little mucker, Prescott? His parents peddle books
and newspapers."