"So we are," cried Harry. "Here, let's wake up old lazy-bones."
Boys will be boys, thanks to the grand elasticity of their nature. Over night Harry had felt like a serious man, but the night's rest and the doctor's hopeful words made him feel as full of light-heartedness as if there were not an enemy within a thousand miles.
Catching up the first thing near, a peacock's feather from a huge bunch in a massive bronze vase, he went behind Phra's head and gently inserted the quill end between the sleeper's lips.
There was no response, so the act was repeated, and Phra's teeth closed with a snap on the quill, which Harry released. Then the boy's eyes opened, and he lay staring at the waving plume standing straight up above him, raised his hand, took hold of it, and gave it a tug, but it was fast. He gave it another tug, discovered that it was held in his teeth, and sat up facing the doctor.
"Did you do that?" he cried.
"I? No."
"Then it was one of Hal's childish games. Oh, there you are! Here: have I been asleep? Yes, father told me to lie down. Oh, tell me, has the enemy come on again?"
"No, it's all right, old chap. I say, aren't you hungry?"
"Hungry? No. Where is my father. Doctor?"
"I don't know; he was with me just now, looking at the wounded."