But Junkie answered not, and he had to push him three or four times gently, and twice roughly, before he could awaken the youngster. Uncoiling himself and turning on the other side, Junkie heaved a deep sigh, and murmured,—“Leave m’ ’lone.”
“Junkie! Junkie! you’ll be late for breakfast,” shouted Barret in his ear.
“Don’—wan’—any—br’kf’st,” murmured the boy. “Leave m’ ’lone, I say—or’ll wallop you!”
A laugh from Barret, and a still severer shake, roused the boy so far as to make him sit up and stare about him with almost supernatural solemnity. Then he yawned, rubbed his eyes, and smiled faintly.
“Oh! it’s you, is it?” he said. “I thought it was Eddie, and—”
Another yawn checked his utterance. Then he suddenly jumped up, and began to haul on his clothes with surprising rapidity. It was evident 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.