“No-o,” said Pen, frowning and looking straight away before him out of the hut-door.
“Well, then, why don’t you speak out?”
“Because I don’t feel much disposed. It is rather a tender subject, Punch.”
“There, I always knew there was something. Look here; you and me’s friends and comrades, ain’t we?”
“I think so, Punch. I have tried to be.”
“So you have. Nobody could have been better. I have lain awake lots of times and thought about what you did. You haven’t minded my saying such nasty things as I have sometimes?”
“Not I, Punch. Sick people are often irritable.”
“Yes,” said the boy eagerly, “that’s it. I have said lots of things to you that I didn’t mean; but it’s when my back’s been very bad, and it seemed to spur me on to be spiteful, and I have been very sorry sometimes, only I was ashamed to tell you. But you haven’t done anything to be ashamed of?” Pen was silent for a few moments.
“Ashamed? No—yes.”
“Well, you can’t have been both,” said the boy. “Whatcher mean by that?”