“Why, Punch, lad!” he said, “not hurt much, are you?”
“That you, Private Gray?”
“Yes. But tell me, are you wounded?”
“Yes!” half-groaned the boy; and then with a sudden access of excitement, “Here, I say, where’s my bugle?”
“Oh, never mind your bugle. Where are you hurt?” cried the boy’s comrade.
“In my bugle—I mean, somewhere in my back. But where’s my instrument?”
“There it is, in the grass, hanging by the cord.”
“Oh, that’s better,” groaned the boy. “I thought all our chaps had gone on and left me to die.”
“And now you see that they hav’n’t,” said the boy’s companion. “There, don’t try to move. We mustn’t be seen.”
“Yes,” almost babbled the boy, speaking piteously, “I thought they had all gone, and left me here. I did try to ketch up to them; but—oh, I am so faint and sick that it’s all going round and round! Here, Private Gray, you are a good chap, shove the cord over my head, and take care the enemy don’t get my bugle. Ah! Water—water, please! It’s all going round and round.”