“What did he do that for, comrade?”
“I don’t know,” said Pen, drawing a deep breath, as he withdrew his lips from the water. “Yes, I do,” he added quickly. “He meant that he was pleased because you let me drink first.”
“Course I did. I don’t see anything to be pleased about in that. But have a drop more, comrade. Quick, look sharp, before I go mad and snatches it away from you, for I never felt like this before.”
“Go on then now, Punch.”
“But—”
“Go on then now; I can wait.”
“Ah, then!” ejaculated the boy, with a deep sigh that was almost a groan; and with trembling hands he held the jar to his lips and drank, and recovered his breath and drank again as if it was impossible to satisfy his burning thirst.
Then recovering himself, he held the jar against Pen’s lips.
“Talk about wine,” he said; “why, it ain’t in it! I don’t wonder that he looks so fat and happy, though he is dressed up like an old scarecrow. Fancy living here with a pump of water like this close at hand!—Had enough now?—That’s right. Now you go on breaking off bits of that bread and dipping it in the water while I cuts up one of these.”
He took his knife from his pocket and began to peel one of the onions, when their host placed the little vessel of salt close to his hand.