“Oh, all right. What time is it?”
“I should think about five. Why?”
“Why?” said the boy. “Because there will be a row. Why are we here?”
“Waiting till you are better before trying to join our company.”
“Better? Have we been resting, then, because my feet were so bad with the marching?”
Pen was silent as he half-knelt there, listening wonderingly to his comrade’s half-delirious queries, and asking himself whether he had better tell the boy their real position.
“So much marching,” continued the boy, “and those blisters. Ah, I remember! I say, private, didn’t I get a bullet into me, and fall right down here? Yes, that’s it. Here, Private Gray, what are you going to do?”
“Ah, what are we going to do?” said the young man sadly. “I was in hopes that you would be so much better, or rather I hoped you might, that we could creep along after dark and get back to our men; but I am afraid—”
“So’m I,” said the boy bitterly, as he tried to move himself a little, and then sank back with a faint groan. “Couldn’t do it, unless two of our fellows got me in a sergeant’s sash and carried me.”
“I’d try and carry you on my back,” said Pen, “if you could bear it.”