The man could not understand a word of English, but he plainly comprehended the young soldier’s meaning, for his right hand relinquished its grasp, the knife fell with a dull sound upon the earthen floor, and its owner turned and dashed away, while the girl stood with her hands clasped as she uttered a low sigh full of relief, and then sank down in a heap upon the floor, sobbing as if her heart would break.
“One for him, comrade,” cried Punch hoarsely. “How would it be to spend a cartridge over his head? Make him run the faster.”
“No need, Punch. This is a bad bit of luck.”
“Bad luck!” said Punch. “I call it fine. Only I couldn’t come and help. Yes, fine! Teach him what British soldier means. Oh, can’t you say something to tell that poor girl not to cry like that? Say, old man,” said the boy, dropping into a whisper, “didn’t see it before. Why, he must be her chap!”
Chapter Fourteen.
Punch will talk.
“Yes, I suppose you are right, Punch,” said Pen, frowning. “Thick-headed idiot. I have quite taken the skin off my knuckles. Poor girl,” he continued, “she has been cruelly punished for doing a womanly action.”
“Yes; but he’s got it too, and serve him right. Oh, didn’t I want to help! But, my word, he will never forget what a British fist is. Yours will soon be all right. Oh, I wish she wouldn’t go on crying like that! Do say something to her and tell her we are very sorry she got into a scrape.”