The boy shook his head.
“Not going to die, am I?” he said feebly.
“Die! No!” cried Pen, with his heart sinking. “A chap like you isn’t going to die over a bit of a wound.”
“Don’t,” said the boy faintly, but with a tone of protest in his words. “Don’t gammon a fellow! I am not going to mind if I am. Our chaps don’t make a fuss about it when their time comes.”
“No,” said Pen sharply; “but your time hasn’t come yet.”
The boy looked up at him with a peculiar smile.
“Saying that to comfort a fellow,” he almost whispered; “only, I say, comrade, you did stick to me, and you won’t—won’t—”
“Won’t what?” said Pen sharply. “Leave you now? Is it likely?”
“Not a bit yet,” said the poor fellow faintly; “but I didn’t mean that.”
“Then what did you mean?” cried Pen wonderingly.