“Of course,” said Pen.
“Well, ain’t we got the chance? We was too busy to think of eating all yesterday, and while we were lying tied up there like a couple of calves in a farmer’s cart.”
“Well, are we much better off now, Punch?”
“Much better—much better off! I should think we are! It was talking about poor Mr Contrabando that made me think of it. Poor chap! I hope he will be able to repulse, as you call it, the Frenchies at the next attack. He is well provisioned; that’s one comfort. And didn’t he provision us? My haversack’s all right with what I helped myself to at breakfast yesterday. Ain’t yours?”
Pen clapped his hand to his side. “No,” he said. “The band was torn off, and it’s gone.”
“What a pity! Never mind, comrade. Mine’s all right, and regular bulgy; and, as they say, what’s enough for one is enough for two; so that will be all right. I say, ain’t it getting against the collar?”
“Yes, we are on the mountain-slope, Punch.”
“Think we are not getting up the same mountain where the old mine is?”
“No, Punch. That must be off more to the right, I think.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But of course we ain’t sure; and I suppose we are not going anywhere near the old padre’s place?”