"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.