“Yes, you have. Nature’s a fine doctor; and if we can keep in hiding here a few days more, and that girl will keep on bringing us bread and milk, you will soon be in marching order; so we are not going to be in the dumps. We will find our fellows somehow.”
“To be sure we will,” said Punch cheerfully, as he wrenched himself a little over, wincing with pain the while.
“What is it, Punch? Wound hurt you again?”
“Yes; horrid,” said the boy with a sigh.
“Then, why don’t you lie still? You should tell me you wanted to move.”
“Yes, all right; I will next time. It did give me a stinger. Sets a fellow thinking what some of our poor chaps must feel who get shot down and lie out in the mountains without a comrade to help them—a comrade like you. I shall never—”
“Look here, Punch,” interrupted Pen, “I don’t like butter.”
“I do,” said the boy, with his eyes dancing merrily. “Wished I had had some with that bread’s morning.”
“Now, you know what I mean,” cried Pen; “and mind this, if you get talking like that to me again I will go off and leave you.”
“Ha, ha!” said the boy softly, “don’t believe you. All right then, I won’t say any more if you don’t like it; but I shall think about it all the more.”