“What’s the matter, Punch? Wound beginning to hurt you again?”
“No,” said the boy surlily.
“What is it, then? What are you thinking about?”
“Thinking about you being so grumpy.”
“Grumpy! Well, isn’t it enough to make a fellow feel low-spirited when he has been ill for weeks, wandering about here on these mountain-sides, hunted as if we were wild beasts, almost starving, and afraid to go near any of the people?”
“No,” replied Punch with quite a snarl. “If you had had a bullet in your back like I did there’s something to grumble about. I don’t believe you ever knew how it hurt.”
“Oh yes, I did, Punch,” said Pen quietly, “for many a time I have felt for you when I have seen you wincing and your face twitching with pain.”
“Of course you did. I know. You couldn’t have been nicer than you were. But what have you got to grumble about now you’re better?”
“Our bad luck in not getting back to some of our people.”
“Well, I should like that too, only I don’t much mind. You see, I can’t help feeling as jolly as a sand-boy.”