“Well, don’t get into a tiff, Punch. This isn’t a time to show your temper.”
“Who’s a-showing temper? I can’t help being a boy. What does he want to chuck that in a fellow’s teeth for?”
“Quiet! Quiet!” said Pen, smiling. “Then I am to tell him that you are ready to have a shot or two at the enemy?”
“Well, I do call you a pretty comrade!” said the boy indignantly. “I should have thought you would have said yes at once, instead of parlyvooing about it like that.—Right, sir!” cried the boy, catching up his musket, giving it two or three military slaps, and drawing himself up as if he had just heard the command, “Present arms!”
“Bon!” said the smuggler, smiling; and he gave the boy a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“Ah!” ejaculated Punch, “that’s better,” as the smuggler now turned away to speak to a group of his men who were standing keeping watch behind some rocks a short distance away.—“I say, comrade—you did tell me once, but I forgetted it—what does bong mean?”
“Good.”
“Ho! All right. Bong! I shall remember that next time. Fire a few shots! I am game to go on shooting as long as the cartridges last; and my box is full. How’s yours?”
“Only half,” replied Pen.
“Oh, well, fair-play’s a jewel; share and share alike. Here, catch hold. That looks like fair measure. We don’t want to count them, do we?”