“Not me,” grumbled the boy. “Frenchies don’t leave nothing: hungry beggars. Murd’rin’ wermin. Wish we could ketch ’em.”
“Ah, so do I, and it makes my heart bleed to see what we do.”
“Ah, but you wait a bit. We shall ketch ’em one o’ these days.”
“You won’t. You’re too lazy.”
“That I ain’t. I’d ha’ gone foraging ’s morning, and there’s an old boot nail made a hole in one foot, and t’other’s all blisters.”
“Oh, my poor boy! And I haven’t finished that pair of stockings I was knitting for you. Look here, you go and sit down till the men come back, and bathe your feet in the stream.”
“Did,” said the boy, with a chuckle.
“Ah! Where abouts? Not above where we get our drinking water?”
“Course I didn’t,” said the boy scornfully. “I ain’t a Frenchy.”
“Ahoy-y-y-y!”