“Get out! I don’t believe that,” said the boy. “There can’t be. If there were, how could our General with his little bit of an army drive the big army of Frenchies about as he does? Ask any of our fellows, and they will tell you that one Englishman is worth a dozen Frenchies. Why, you must have heard them say so.”
“Oh yes, I have, Punch,” said Pen, laughing, as he nursed his leg, which reminded him of his wound from time to time. “But I don’t believe it. It’s only bluster and brag, of which I think our fellows ought to be ashamed. Why, you’ve more than once seen the French soldiers drive our men back.”
“Well, yes,” said Punch grudgingly. “But that’s when there have been more of them.”
“Not always, Punch.”
“Why is it, then?”
“Oh, when they have had better positions and our officers have been outflanked.”
“Now you are dodging away from what we were talking about,” said Punch. “You were saying that you didn’t like shooting the men.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“That’s because you don’t understand things,” cried the boy triumphantly. “You see, although I am only a boy, and younger than you are, I am an older soldier.”
“Are you, Punch?” said Pen, smiling.