Penton Gray made no effort now to look round for danger, but, unstopping his water-bottle, he crept closer to his companion in adversity, passed the strap of the boy’s shako from under his chin, thrust his cap from his head to lie amongst the grass, and then opened the collar of his coatee and began to trickle a little water between the poor fellow’s lips and sprinkled a little upon his temples.
“Ah!” sighed the boy, as he began to revive, “that’s good! I don’t mind now.”
“But you are hurt. Where’s your wound?” said the young private eagerly.
“Somewhere just under the shoulder,” replied the boy. “’Tain’t bleeding much, is it?”
“I don’t know yet.—I won’t hurt you more than I can help.”
“Whatcher going to do?”
“Draw off your jacket so that I can see whether the hurt’s bad.”
“’Tain’t very,” said the boy, speaking feebly of body but stout of heart. “I don’t mind, comrade. Soldiers don’t mind a wound.—Oh, I say!” he cried, with more vigour than he had previously evinced.
“Did I hurt you?”
“Yes, you just did. Were you cutting it with your knife?”