“Grab,” said Punch laconically.
“What—steal?” cried Pen.
“Steal! Gammon! Aren’t we soldiers? Soldiers forage. ’Tain’t stealing. We must live in an enemy’s country.”
“But the Spaniards are not our enemies.”
“There, now you are harguing, and I hate to hargue when you are hungry. What I say is, we are soldiers and in a strange country, and that we must take what we want. It’s only foraging; so come on.”
“Come along then, Punch,” said Pen good-humouredly. “But you are spoiling my morals, and—”
“Pst!” whispered Punch. “Lie down.”
He set the example, throwing himself prone amongst the rough growth that sprang up along the mountain-slope; and Pen followed his example.
“What can you see?” he whispered, as he crept closer to his comrade’s side, noting the while that as he lay upon his chest the boy had made ready his musket and prepared to take aim. “You had better not shoot.”
“Then tell them that too,” whispered Punch.