“Ah!” said Punch with a sigh, “wish I was a Spaniel and could tell her what a good little lass she is, or that I was a scholar like you are; I’d know how you do it. Why, you quite began to talk her lingo at once. Think that chap’s waiting to begin bullying her again?”
“I hope not, Punch.”
“So do I. Perhaps he won’t for fear that she should tell you, and him have to run up against your fist again.”
“It’s a bad job, Punch, and I want to go down to the stream to bathe my hand. I dare say I should see him if he were hanging about, for the girl came from that way.”
“But you needn’t say it’s a bad job,” said Punch. “There’s nothing to mind.”
“I hope not,” said Pen thoughtfully. “Perhaps there’s nothing to mind. It would have been a deal worse if the French had found out that we were here.”
“Yes, ever so much,” said Punch. “Here, have some of these grapes; they are fine. Do you know, that bit of a spurt did me good. I feel better now as long as I lie quite still. Just as if I had been shamming, and ought to get up, and—and—oh, no I don’t,” said the poor fellow softly, as he made an effort to change his position, the slight movement bringing forth an ejaculation of pain. “Just like a red-hot bayonet.”
“Poor old chap!” said Pen, gently altering the injured lad’s position. “You must be careful, and wait.”
“But I don’t want to wait,” cried the boy peevishly. “It has made me feel as weak as a great gal. I don’t believe that one would have made so much fuss as I do.”
“There, there, don’t worry about it. Go on eating the grapes.”