“I am willing,” said Pen decisively; “but it’s only fair that I should ask my comrade, who is only one of the buglers of my regiment.”
“Oh, of course,” said the smuggler captain, “a non-combatant. He carries a musket, I see, like yourself.”
“Yes,” replied Pen, with a smile, “but it is only a French piece. We belong to a rifle-regiment by rights.”
“Yes; I have heard of it,” said the smuggler.
“Well, I will ask him,” said Pen, “for he doesn’t understand a word we are saying.—Punch,” he continued, addressing the boy, “the contrabandista wants to know whether we will fire a few shots against the French who are trying to take the Spanish King.”
“Where do they want to take him?” cried the boy eagerly.
“Back to prison.”
“Why, of course we will,” said the boy sharply. “What do you want to ask that for?”
“Because he knows that you are not a private soldier, but a bugle-boy.”
“Well, I can’t help that, can I? I am a-growing, and I dare say I could hit a haystack as well as a good many of our chaps. They ain’t all of them so clever because they are a bit older than I am.”