“Why, what’s the matter with the boy?” growled the sergeant roughly. “Does he think he’s going to be shot?”
“He’s badly hurt, sir,” said Pen quietly, “and can’t bear being separated from me.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it, sir?” said the sergeant. “My faith, but you speak good French! Tell him that I’ll see that he’s all right. What’s his hurt—bayonet?”
“No,” said Pen, smiling. “A French bullet—one of your men aimed too well.”
“Ha, ha! Yes, we know how to shoot. Poor fellow! Why, I have just such a boy as he.—Lift him up gently, lads.—Humph! He has fainted.”
For poor Punch had held out bravely to the last; but nature was too strong even for his British pluck.