“You don’t know,” continued the boy, through his set teeth. “Hanged if I do—so there!”
Pen laughed bitterly.
“Well, you are a queer fellow, Punch,” he said. “You stood by me yesterday and faced dozens of those French chasseurs, and fought till we had fired off our last cartridge, and then set-to to keep them off with the butt of your musket, though you were quite sure they would come on again and again.”
“Perhaps I did,” said the boy huskily, “because I felt I ought to as a soldier, and it was dooty; but ’tain’t a soldier’s dooty to get torn to pieces by wolves. Ugh! It’s horrid, and I can’t bear it.”
“Come on, Punch. I am going.”
“No, don’t! I say, pray don’t, comrade!” cried the boy passionately; and he caught at Pen’s arm and clung to it with all his might. “I tell you I’d shoulder arms, keep touch with you, and keep step and march straight up to a regiment of the French, with the bullets flying all about our ears. I wouldn’t show the white once till I dropped. You know I’d be game if it was obeying orders, and all our fellows coming on behind. I tell you I would, as true as true!”
“What!” said Pen, turning upon him firmly, “you would do that if you were ordered?”
“That I would, and I wouldn’t flinch a bit. You know I never did,” cried the boy passionately. “Didn’t I always double beside my company-leader, and give the calls whenever I was told?”
“Yes; and now I am going to be your company-leader to-night. Now then, my lad, forward!”
Pen jerked his arm free and stepped off at once, while his comrade staggered with the violence of the thrust he had received. Then, recovering himself, he stood fast, struggling with the stubborn rage that filled his young breast, till Pen was a dozen paces in front, marching sturdily on in the direction of the howls that they had heard, and without once looking back.