“Shall we risk it, comrade?” he said.
“Yes, of course.”
And Punch limped painfully to the side of the second dragoon, while Pen took hold of the stirrup-leather of the first.
“Here, I say, this won’t do,” said the man, as their horses’ hoofs sank in the hot, dry sand of the other side. “Why, you are both regularly knocked up.—Dismount!” he cried, and he and his companion dropped from their saddles. “There, my lads, mount. You can ride the rest of the way. Hallo! Limping?” he continued. “What does that mean? Footsore, or a wound?”
“Wound,” said Pen quietly. “My comrade, there, has been worse than I. How far do you say it is to the camp?”
“A couple of miles; but we will see you there safe. How have you been off for rations?”
Pen told him, and an end was put to their famishing state by a surprise of the dragoons’ haversacks.
About half an hour later the led horses entered the camp, and the boy’s hearts were gladdened by the cheery notes of a cavalry call.
“Ah,” whispered Punch, as he leaned over from his seat in the saddle to whisper to Pen, “that seems to do a fellow’s heart good, comrade. But ’tain’t so good as a bugle. If I could hear that again I should be just myself.”