“Yes, a little.”
“What am I to do? I can’t be always going to sleep.”
“No; but go as much as you can, and you will get well the quicker.”
“All right,” said Punch sadly. “’Bey orders; so here goes. But I do wish that the chap as gave me this bullet had got it hisself. I say, comrade,” added the boy, after lying silent for a few minutes.
“What is it? What do you want?”
“Just unhook that there cord and hang my bugle on that other peg. Ah, that’s better; I can see it now. Stop a minute—give us hold.”
The boy’s eyes brightened as Pen handed him the instrument, and he looked at it with pride, while directly after, obeying the impulse that seized him, he placed the mouthpiece to his lips, drew a deep breath, and with expanding cheeks was about to give forth a blast when Pen snatched it from his hands.
“Whatcher doing of?” cried the boy angrily. “Stopping you from bringing the French down upon us,” cried Pen sharply. “What were you thinking about?”
“I wasn’t thinking at all,” said the boy slowly, as his brow wrinkled up in a puzzled way. “Well, I was a fool! Got a sort of idea in my head that some of our fellows might hear it and come down and find us.”
“I wish they would,” said Pen sadly; “but I don’t think there’s a doubt of it, Punch, we are surrounded by the French. There, I’m sorry I was so rough with you, only you were going to make a mistake.”