“No,” said his comrade with a half-laugh, as he drew his hand from where he had passed it under the boy’s shoulder. “That’s what cut you, Punch,” and he held up a ragged-looking bullet which had dropped into his fingers as he manipulated the wound.
“Thought you was cutting me with your knife,” said the boy, speaking with some energy now. “But, I say, don’t you chuck that away; I want that.—What did they want to shoot me there for—the cowards! Just as if I was running away, when I was only obeying orders. If they had shot me in front I could have seen to it myself.—I say, does it bleed much?”
“No, my lad; but it’s an ugly place.”
“Well, who wants it to be handsome? I ain’t a girl. Think you can stop it, private?”
“I think I can bind it up, Punch, and the bleeding will stop of itself.”
“That’s good. I say, though, private—sure to die after it, ain’t I?”
“Yes, some day,” said the young soldier, smiling encouragingly at the speaker; and then by the help of a shirt-sleeve and a bandage which he drew from his knapsack, the young soldier managed pretty deftly to bind up his comrade’s wound, and then place him in a more comfortable position, lying upon his side.
“Thank ye!” said the boy with a sigh. “But, I say, you have give it me hot.”
“I am very sorry, boy.”
“Oh, never mind that. But just wipe my face; it’s all as wet as wet, and the drops keep running together and tickling.”