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, and remained perfectly still for the space of about one quarter of a minute. Then, jumping up with the pleased expression of one who felt that he had done his duty, he was about to rush from the room, when Barret stopped him.
“I’m glad to see that you say your prayers, at all events,” he said.