This little service was performed, and then the boy turned his head uneasily aside.
“What is it, Punch?”
“That there bullet—where is it?”
“I have got it safe.”
“That’s right. Now, where’s my bugle?”
“There it is, quite safe too.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said the boy faintly. “I don’t want to lose that; but— Oh, I say, look at that there dent! What’ll the colonel say when he sees that?”
“Shall I tell you, Punch?” said the young man, who bent over him, watching every change in his face.
“Yes—no. I know: ‘Careless young whelp,’ or something; and the sergeant—”
“Never mind the sergeant,” said the young sharpshooter. “I want to tell you what the colonel will say, like the gentleman he is.”