The poor lad made a snatch at his companion’s arm, and tried to draw him down.
“What is it?” said Pen anxiously now, for he was startled by the look in the boy’s eyes.
“Want to whisper,” came in a broken voice.
“No; you can’t have anything to whisper now,” said Pen. “There, let me give you a little more water.”
The boy shook his head.
“Want to whisper,” he murmured in a harsh, low voice.
“Well, what is it? But you had better not. Shut your eyes and have a bit of a nap till you are rested and the faintness has gone. I shall be rested, too, then, and I can get you down into the hut, where I tell you there’s a bed, and, better still, Punch, a draught of sweet warm milk.”
“Gammon!” said the boy again; and he hung more heavily upon Pen’s arm.—“Want to whisper.”
“Well, what is it?” said Pen, trying hard to master the feeling of despair that was creeping over him.
“Them wolves!” whispered the boy. “Don’t let them get me, comrade, when I’m gone.”