“No. It’s worse when I try to move it.”
“That’s bad; but, I say, you see now we couldn’t have gone away unless I carried you.”
“But it seems so unfair to be staying here,” said Pen bitterly. “I believe now I could limp along very slowly.”
“I don’t,” said Punch. “You see, those Frenchies have made up their minds to catch us, and I believe if they caught sight of us creeping along now they would let go at us again; and as we have had a bullet apiece, we don’t want any more.”
“Hist!” whispered Pen; “they think we are here still, and they are coming back.”
“Nonsense! Fancy!”
“Listen.”
“Oh, murder!” whispered Punch. “This is hard!” For he could distinctly hear hurried steps approaching the cottage, and he placed his eye to the knot-hole again to see what effect it was having upon the old man. But he was so still as he crouched there in the lamplight that it seemed as if he had dropped asleep, worn out by his efforts, till all at once the footsteps ceased and there was a sharp tapping on the door, given in a peculiar way, first a rap, then a pause, then two raps close together, another pause, and then rap, rap, rap, quickly.
The old man sprang to his feet, unbarred the door, and seized it to throw it open.
“It’s all over, comrade,” whispered Punch. “Well, let’s fill our pockets with the prog. I don’t want to starve any more.”