“All right, then. I shall lie and think till my head begins to go round and round, and I shall go on thinking about myself till I get all miserable and go backwards. You don’t want that, do you?”
“You know I don’t.”
“Very well, then, let’s have some more uncle. It’s like doctor’s stuff to me. I’ve been thinking that you might wait a bit, and then go and see that lawyer chap and punch his head, only that would be such a common sort of way. It would be all right if it was me, but it wouldn’t do for you. This would be better. I have thought it out.”
“Yes, you think too much, Punch,” said Pen, laying his hand upon his companion’s forehead.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” cried the boy pettishly. “It’s nice and cool now.”
“Yes, it is better now. That last sleep did you good.”
“Not it, for I was thinking all the time.”
“Nonsense! You were fast asleep.”
“Yesterday,” said the boy; “but I was only shamming to-day, so that I could think, and I have been thinking that this would do. You must wait till we have whopped the French and gone back to England, and got our new uniforms served out, and burnt all our rags. Then we must go and see your uncle, and—”
“That’ll do, Punch. I want to see to your wound now.”