“Oh, all right. I won’t say no more. You are such a touchy chap. Don’t go away. Give us a drink.”
“Ah, now you are talking sense,” said Pen, as he made for the shelf upon which the little wooden vessel stood. “Here, Punch,” he said, “you mustn’t drink this. It has turned sour.”
“Jolly glad of it. Chuck it away and fetch me a good drink of water. Only, I say, I’d give it a good rinse out first.”
“Yes,” said Pen dryly, “I think it would be as well. Now, you don’t think that I should have given you water out of a dirty pail?”
“Well, how should I know?” said the boy querulously. “But, where are you going to get it from?”
“Out of the pool just below the waterfall.”
“Ah, it will be nice and cool from there,” said the boy, passing his tongue over his dry lips. “I was afraid that you might get it from where the sun had been on it all day.”
“Were you?” said Pen, smiling.
“Here, I say, don’t grin at a fellow like that,” said the boy peevishly. “You do keep catching a chap up so. Oh, I am so thirsty! It’s as if I had been eating charcoal cinders all day; and my wound’s all as hot and dry as if it was being burnt.”
“Yes, I had no business to have been asleep,” said Pen. “I’ll fetch the water, and when you have had a good drink I will bathe your wound.”