“And if they are not able to—what then?” said Pen, smiling.
“Well, I shall wait till I get so hungry I can’t wait any longer, and then I will cry chy-ike till the Frenchies come and pick me up. But, I say, they won’t stick a bayonet through me, will they?”
“What, through a wounded boy!” said Pen angrily. “No, they are not so bad as that.”
“Thank ye! I like that, private. I have often wished I was a man; but now I’m lying here, with a hole in my back, I’m rather glad that I am only a boy. Now then, catch hold of my water-bottle. It will soon be dark enough for you to get down to the river; and you mustn’t lose any time. Oh, there’s one thing more, though. You had better take my bugle; we mustn’t let the enemy have that. I think as much of my bugle as Bony’s chaps do of their eagles. You will take care of it, won’t you?”
“Yes, when I carry it,” said Pen quietly.
“Well, you are going to carry it now, aren’t you?”
“No,” said Pen quietly.
“Oh, you mean, not till you have fetched the water?”
Pen shook his head.
“What do you mean, then?”