“Oh,” said Punch, “that comes of being able to talk French. Wish I could. Here, I say, you said the doctor had been doing up my wound again. Think I could walk now?”
“I am sure you couldn’t.”
“I ain’t,” said the boy. “Perhaps I could if I tried.”
“But why do you ask?” said Pen. “Because it’s so jolly nice and dark; and, besides, it’s all so quiet. Couldn’t we slip off and find the way to our troops?”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking, Punch, ever since you have been lying here.”
“Of course you would,” said the boy in an eager whisper. “And why not? I think I could manage it, and I’m game.”
“You must wait, Punch, and with me think ourselves lucky that we are still together. Wait and get strong enough, and then we will try.”
“Oh, all right. I shall do what you tell me. But I say, what’s become of your rifle and belt?”
“I don’t know. I saw them once. They were with some muskets and bayonets laid in the mule-wagon under the straw on one side. But I haven’t seen them since.”
“That’s a pity,” sighed the boy faintly; and soon after Pen found, when he whispered to him, that he was breathing softly and regularly, while his head felt fairly cool in spite of the stifling air of the crowded hut.