Pen took a step forward to where he could take hold of a stunted oak-bough whose bark felt soft and strange; and, holding tightly with one hand, he held his burden with the other while he sank slowly, the branch bending the while till he was kneeling. Then he slid his load down amongst the undergrowth and quickly opened his water-bottle and held it to the boy’s lips.
“Feel faint, lad?” he said.
Again there was no answer; but Punch swallowed a few mouthfuls.
“Ah, that’s better,” he said. “Head’s swimming.”
“Well, you shall lie still for a few minutes till you think you can bear it, and then I want you to get down to that hut.”
Punch looked up at him with misty eyes, wonderingly.
“Hut!” he said faintly. “What hut?”
“The one I told you about. You will be able to see it when you are better. There’s a rough bed there where you will be able to lie and rest till your wound heals.”
“Hut!”
“Oh, never mind now. Will you have some more water?”