that Junkie had a will of his own, and was accustomed to exert it on all
occasions. He continued to dress, wash himself, brush his hair and his
teeth, without speaking, and with such vigour that he soon distanced his
companion in the race. True, he did not do everything thoroughly. He
did not render his little hands immaculately clean. He did not remember
that the secret places behind his ears required to be particularly
attended to, and, in brushing operations, he totally forgot that he was
possessed of back-hair. Indeed, it is just possible that he disbelieved
that fact, for he neglected it entirely, insomuch that when he had
completed the operation to his own entire satisfaction, several stiff
and independent locks pointed straight to the sky, and two or three to
the horizon.

"That's a pretty text on the wall, Junkie," observed Barret, while the
youngster was busy with the comb.

"Yes, it's pretty."

Barret wished to draw the boy out, but, like a tough piece of
india-rubber, he refused to be drawn out.

"It is beautifully painted. Who did it?" asked the youth, making
another attempt.

He had accidentally touched the right chord this time. It vibrated at
once. Junkie looked up with sparkling eyes, and said that Milly did it.

"She does everything beautifully," he added, as he brushed away at his
forelock--a remarkably obstinate forelock, considering that it was the
most highly favoured lock of his head.

"You like Milly, I see," said his friend.

"Of _course_ I do. Everybody does."

"Indeed! Why does everybody like her so much?"

"'Cause she's so nice," said Junkie, dropping his brush on the floor--
not accidentally, but as the easiest way of getting rid of it. "And she
sometimes says that I'm good."

"I'm glad to hear that, my boy, for if Milly says so it must be true."

"No, it's _not_ true," returned the boy promptly, as he fastened his
necktie in a complex knot, and thrust his arm through the wrong hole of
his little vest. "Milly is mistaken, that's all. But I like her to say
it, all the same. It feels jolly. But I'm bad--_awful_ bad! Everybody
says so. Father says so, an' he must be right, you know, for he says he
knows everything. Besides, I _feel_ it, an' I know it, an' I don't
care!"

Having given vent to this reckless statement, and wriggled into his
jacket--the collar of which he left half down and half up--Junkie
suddenly plumped down on his knees, laid his head on his bed