“Why, you have regularly got the grumps to-day, Punch; just, too, when you were getting better than ever.”
“I ain’t, I tell you. I had a look at myself this morning while you were snoring, and I am as thin as a scarecrow. My poor old mother wouldn’t know me again if ever I got back; and I sha’n’t never see our old place no more.”
“Yes, you will, Punch—grown up into a fine, manly-looking British rifleman, for you will be too big to blow your bugle then. You might believe me.”
“Bugle! Yes, I didn’t give it a rub yesterday. Just hand it off that peg.”
Pen reached the bugle from where it hung by its green cord, and the lines in Punch’s young forehead began to fade as he gave the instrument a touch with his sleeve, and then placed the mouthpiece to his lips, filled out his sadly pale, hollow cheeks, and looked as if he were going to blow with all his might, when he was checked by Pen clapping his hand over the glistening copper bell.
“Whatcher doing of?” cried the boy angrily.
“Stopping you. There, you see you are better. You couldn’t have attempted that a while ago.”
“Ya! Think I’m such a silly as to bring the enemy down upon us?”
“Well, I didn’t know.”
“Then you ought to. I should just like to give the call, though, to set our dear old lads going along the mountain-side there skirmishing and peppering the frog-eating warmints till they ran for their lives.”