“To enjoy myself so,” continued Pen, “while you, with your mouth so out of taste and no appetite, could hardly eat a bit.”
“Well, who’s to have a happetite with a wound like mine? I shall never get no better till I get a mug of real old English beer.”
“Never mind; you get plenty of milk.”
“Ya! Nasty, sickly stuff! I’ll never touch it again.”
“Well then, beautiful sparkling water.”
“Who wants sparkling water? ’Tain’t like English. It’s so thin and cold.”
“Come, come; you must own that you are mending fast, Punch.”
“Who wants to be mended,” snarled the poor fellow, “and go through life like my old woman’s cracked chayney plate with the rivet in it! I was a strong lad once, and could beat any drummer in the regiment in a race, while now I ought to be in horspital.”
“No, you ought not. I’ll tell you what you want, Punch.”
“Oh, I know.”