“Afraid not,” he said; “and— Ah, all right.—Punch, lad, I’m wanted.” For just then a man came hurriedly into the hut and made him a sign.
“What does he want?” grumbled Punch.
“It’s the surgeon,” said Pen, and he hurried away.
For some hours—long, hot, weary hours—Punch saw little of his fellow-prisoner, the morning wearing on and the atmosphere of the hovel becoming unbearably close, while all the time outside in the brilliant sunshine, evidently just on the other side of a stretch of purple hilly land, a battle was in progress, the rattle of musketry breaking into the heavy volume of sound made by the field-guns, while every now and again on the sun-baked, dusty stretch which lay beyond the doorway, where the shadows were dark, a mounted man galloped past.
“Wish my comrade would come back,” he muttered; and it was long ere his wish was fulfilled. But the time came at last, and Pen was standing there before him, holding in his hands a tin drinking-cup and a piece of bread.
“Take hold,” he said hoarsely, looking away.
“Where you been?” said Punch.
“Working in the ambulance. I—I—” And Pen staggered, and sat down suddenly on the ground.
“What’s the matter? Not hit?”
“No, no.”