“Yes, Punch, I have been a while. I had rilled the pail, when there was a rustle among the trees, and I thought one of the Frenchies was about to pounce upon me.”
“And was it?”
“No, only a goat amongst the bushes; and that made me longer. There, let me hold you up—no, no, don’t try yourself. That’s the way. Did it hurt you much?”
The boy drank with avidity, and then drew a long breath.
“Oh, ’tis good!” he said. “Nice and cool too. What, did it hurt? Yes, tidy; but I ain’t going to howl about that. Good job it wasn’t a Frenchy. Don’t want them to find us now we are amongst friends. If that gal will only bring us a bit to eat for about another day I shall be all right then. Sha’n’t I, comrade?”
“Better, I hope, Punch,” said Pen, smiling; “but you won’t be all right for some time yet.”
“Gammon!” cried the boy. “I shall. It only wants plenty of pluck, and a wound soon gets well. I mean to be fit to go on again precious soon, and I will. I say, give us a bit more of that cake, and—I say—what’s the Spanish for butter?”
Pen shook his head.
“Well, cheese, then? That will do. I want to ask her to bring us some. It’s a good sign, ain’t it, when a chap begins to get hungry?”
“Of course it is. All you have got to do is to lie still, and not worry your wound by trying to move.”