“Well,” said the boy slowly, “after that I won’t. Do you know, it made me feel queer.”
“It made me feel I don’t know how,” said Pen—“half-choking in the throat.”
“Oh, it didn’t make me feel like that,” said Punch thoughtfully. “I had finished reloading before he had felt all his fellows to see if they were dead, and I could have brought him down as easy as kiss my hand, but somehow I felt as if it would be a shame, like hitting a chap when he’s down, and so I didn’t fire. Then I looked at you, and I could see you hadn’t opened your pan through looking at him. You don’t think I ought to have fired, do you?”
“You know I don’t, Punch,” said Pen shortly. “It would have been cowardly to have fired at a man like that.”
“But I say,” said Punch, “wasn’t it cheek! It was as good as telling us that he didn’t care a button for us.”
“I don’t believe he does,” said Pen thoughtfully; “but, I say, Punch, I shouldn’t like to be one of his men.”
“What, them two as we brought down? Of course not!”
“No, no; I mean those who ran away and left him in the lurch. He’s just the sort of captain who would be ready to lay about him with the flat of his sword.”
“And serve the cowardly beggars right,” cried Punch. “Think they will come on again?”
“Come on again, with such a prize as the Spanish King to be made a prisoner? Yes, and before long too. There, be ready. There’ll be another rush directly.”