"Oh, don't mention it. Run home at once, Charley, with them, and by the time you get back your father will be—finished. Run along."
"I won't," said Charley.
"Ah, come—come," said his father.
"I won't go, and I don't like soap."
"And why don't you like soap, my little man?" said Todd, as he recommenced operations upon the silversmith's face.
"Because I don't like to be washed at all, it scrubs so, and I don't like you, either, you are so dreadfully ugly—that I don't."
Todd smiled blandly.
"Now, Charley," said his father, "I am very angry with you. You are a very bad boy indeed. Why don't you do as Mr. Todd tells you?"
"Because I won't."
"Bless him," said Todd, "bless his heart. But don't you think, Mr. B."—here Todd's voice sank to a whisper—"don't you think that it's rather injudicious to encourage this obstinacy—if one may call it such—thus early in life? It may, you know, grow upon the dear little fellow."