“I say, comrade,” said Punch, repeating his question rather impatiently, “aren’t we going to begin soon? I feel just like old O’Grady.”
“How’s that, Punch?”
“What he calls ‘spoiling for a fight, me boy.’”
“Oh, you needn’t feel like that, Punch,” said Pen, smiling.
“Well, don’t you?”
“No. I never do. I never want to kill anybody.”
“You don’t? That ain’t being a good soldier.”
“I can’t help that, Punch. Of course, when one’s in for it I fire away like the rest; but when I’m cool I somehow don’t like the feeling that one has killed or wounded some brave man.”
“Oh, get out,” cried the boy, “with your ‘killed or wounded some brave man!’ They ain’t brave men—only Frenchies.”
“Why, Punch, there are as brave men amongst the French as amongst the English.”