“There have been times, Punch, when I have felt ashamed of what I have done.”
“Why, what have you done? I don’t believe it was ever anything bad. You say what it was. I’ll never tell.”
“Enlisted for a soldier.”
“What?” cried the boy. “Why, that ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. What stuff! Why, that’s something to be proud of, specially in our Rifles. In the other regiments we have got out here the lads are proud of being in scarlet. Let ’em. But I know better. There isn’t one of them who wouldn’t be proud to be in our dark-green, and to shoulder a rifle. Besides, we have got our bit of scarlet on the collar and cuffs, and that’s quite enough. Why, you are laughing at me! You couldn’t be ashamed of being in our regiment. I know what it was—you ran away from home?”
“It was no longer home to me, Punch.”
“Why, didn’t you live there?”
“Yes; but it didn’t seem like home any longer. It was like this, Punch. My father and mother had died.”
“Oh,” said the boy softly, “that’s bad. Very good uns, waren’t they?”
Pen bowed his head.
“Then it waren’t your home any longer?”