“There, Punch, you see I was right,” said Pen.
“Who’s to see anybody’s right when it’s as black as your hat?” replied the boy impatiently.
“Well, I think it’s right if you don’t. What shall we do—go to sleep now?”
“Go to sleep?” growled the boy irritably. “Go to wake you mean! I tell you what I am just fit for.”
“Well, what?” said Pen good-humouredly.
“Sentry-go. No fear of anybody catching me asleep who came on his rounds. I used to think that was the very worst part of being a soldier, but I could just enjoy it now. ’Tis miserable work, though, isn’t it?”
“No,” replied Pen thoughtfully.
“But you get very sleepy over it, don’t you?”
“I never did,” said Pen gravely, as they both settled themselves upon the floor of the loft, and the bundles of straw and dried-fern litter which the priest had added for their comfort rustled loudly while they placed themselves in restful postures. “I used to find it a capital time to think, Punch.”
“What about?”