“I told you, Punch, what I believe,” replied Pen.
“Yes; you said you were afraid that they wouldn’t have me carried away on account of my wound.”
“Well, that’s what I do believe, Punch. I don’t want to be hard on the French, but they are a very rough lot here in this wild mountain-land, and I don’t believe they would burden themselves with wounded.”
“Well, it wouldn’t matter,” said the boy dismally.
“Of course they wouldn’t carry me about; but they would put me out of my misery, and a good job too.”
Pen said nothing, but his face wrinkled up with lines which made him look ten years older, as he laid his hand upon his comrade’s fevered brow.
“Ha!” sighed Punch, “that does a fellow good. I don’t believe any poor chap ever had such a comrade as you are; and I lie here sometimes wondering how you can do so much for such an—”
“Will you be quiet, Punch?” cried Pen, snatching away his hand.
“Yes, yes—please don’t take it away.”
“Then be quiet. You know how I hate you to talk like this.”