CHAPTER VII.
The next morning Ramsey came into his father's room while Mr.Milholland was shaving, an hour before church time, and it became apparent that the son had someting on his mind, though for a while he said nothing.
"Did you want anything, Ramsey ?" "Well--" "Didn't want to borrow my razors ?" "No, sir." Mr.Milholland chuckled.

"I hardly supposed so, seriously! Shaving is a great nuisance and the longer you keep away from it, the better.

And when you do, you let my razors alone, young feller!" "Yes, sir." (Mr.Milholland's razors were safe, Ramsey had already achieved one of his own, but he practised the art in secret.) He passed his hand thoughtfully over his cheeks, and traces of white powder were left upon his fingers, whereupon he wiped his hand surreptitiously, and stood irresolutely waiting.
"What is it you really want, Ramsey ?" "I guess I don't want anything." "Money ?" "No, sir.

You gay' me some Friday." Mr.Milholland turned from his mirror and looked over the edge of a towel at his son.

In the boy's eyes there was such a dumb agony of interrogation that the father was a little startled.
"Why, what is it, Ramsey?
Have you--" He paused, frowning and wondering.
"You haven't been getting into some mess you want to tell me about, have you ?" "No, sir." His tone was meek, but a mute distress lurked within it, bringing to the father's mind disturbing suspicions, and foreshadowings of indignation and of pity.