The next day the poor fellow had quite a serious relapse, and lay looking so feeble that once more Pen in his alarm stood watching and blaming himself for rousing the boy into such a state of excitement that he seemed to have caused him serious harm.
But just as Punch seemed at the worst he brightened up again.
“Look here,” he said, “I ain’t bad. I know what it is.”
“So do I,” replied Pen. “You have been trying your strength too much.”
“Wrong!” cried the boy faintly. “It was you give me too much to eat. You ought to have treated me like a doctor would, or as if I was a prisoner, and given me dry bread.”
“Ah!” sighed Pen. “But where was the bread to come from?”
“Jusso,” said Punch, with a faint little laugh; “and you can’t make bread without flour, can you? But don’t you think I’m going to die, because I am ever so much better to-day, and shall be all right soon. Now, go on talking to me again about your uncle.”
“No,” said Pen, “you have heard too much of my troubles already.”
“Oh no, I ain’t. I want to hear you talk about it.”
“Then you will have to wait, Punch.”