“After you.”
It took a good deal of pressure, but at last the truth of the French saying about its being only the first step that costs was proved, for after the first mouthful, of which the poor fellow shudderingly partook, the boy consented to open his mouth again, after holding out until his amateur surgeon and nurse had consented to share the meal, which proved refreshing to the patient, who partook of a little; while, bearing in mind that he could at all events restore the fluid food, Pen ate ravenously, his spirits rising with every mouthful.
“It will go hard,” he said to himself, “if I can’t forage something else. There are the trout, to begin with. I know I can catch some of them in the shallows, and that too without rod or line. That is,” he added, “if we are not found out and marched off as prisoners.”
“Whatcher thinking about?” said Punch drowsily.
“Catching fish, and making a fire to cook them.”
“There’s my flint and steel in my satchel, but where’s your fish?”
“In the river.”
“But you can’t catch ’em.”
“Oh, can’t I, Punch?”
“Oh yes, I know,” piped the boy. “They are trout. I saw some the other day when we crossed that stream. I saw some run under the stones, and wanted to creep up and tiddle one, only I couldn’t leave the ranks.”