“Shall if I like. Ain’t you a gentleman?”
“No, sir. Only Private Penton Gray, of the —th Rifles.”
“Well, you are a-saying ‘sir’ to me.”
“Yes, but I don’t mean it as you do. While I am in the regiment we are equals.”
“Oh yes, I like that!” said the boy with a faint laugh. “Wish we was. Only Private Penton Gray of the —th! Well, ain’t that being a gentleman? Don’t our chaps all carry rifles? They are not like the line regiments with their common Brown Besses. Sharpshooters, that’s what we are. But they didn’t shoot sharp enough the other day, or else we shouldn’t be here. I have been thinking when I have been lying half-asleep that there were so many Frenchies that they got our lads between two fires and shot ’em all down.”
“I hope not, Punch. What makes you think that?”
“Because if they had been all right they would have been after us before now to cut us out, and—and—I say, my head’s beginning to swim again.”
“Exactly, you are tired out and must go to sleep again.”
“But I tell you I don’t—”
The poor boy stopped short, to gaze appealingly in his companion’s eyes as if asking for help, and the help Pen gave was to lay his hand gently on his eyelids and keep it there till he felt that the sufferer had sunk into a deep sleep.