“Thank you, sir,” cried Punch. “You are a real gentleman.”
The priest smiled and nodded, and watched the two lads as Pen took an earthenware bowl that their host placed close to his hand after half-filling it with water so that he could steep the bread, while Punch deftly peeled one of the onions, not scrupling about littering the floor, and then proceeded to quarter it and then divide the segments again, dipping one in the salt and placing it between his wounded companion’s lips.
“Good! good!” said the priest again, smiling with satisfaction, and laying his hand once more upon Punch’s head. “Bonum! bonum!”
“Bone ’em!” said Punch. “Why, he give it to me!”
“He means it was good, Punch,” said Pen, smiling.
“Good! Yes,” cried the boy, crunching up one of the savoury pieces of vegetable. “That’s what he means, is it? Thought he meant I had stolen it.—Bonum, eh, sir? I should just think it is! Wants a bit more salt; but my word, it’s fine! Have a bit more, comrade. You eat while there’s a chance. Never mind me. I can keep both of us going. Talk about a dinner or a supper; I could keep on till dark! Only wish, though, I’d got one of their Spanish shillings to pay for it; but those French beggars took care of them for me. I can give him my knife, though; and I will too, as soon as I have done with it. How do you feel now, comrade?”
“Better, Punch, better,” replied Pen. “Thank you,” he continued, as his companion broke off more bread for him and then began to peel another onion. “But you are paying more attention to me than you are to yourself.”
“Course I am, comrade. Didn’t you pay more attention to me when I was wounded?”
Then turning to the priest, he pointed to the bread with his knife, and then tapped the onion he had begun to quarter with the blade.
“Splendid, sir,” he said, smiling. “Bonum! bonum!”