Despite his size, Pudge was really making a good job out of it. He could do things when he made up his mind to try hard.
They could hear him puffing dreadfully, and making a noise that Billy likened to the blowing of a porpoise as it wallowed in the billows.
“Every foot counts with us, remember, Pudge,” said Billy, who was just ahead of the fat boy, turning his head to speak, for it was hardly wise to call out any longer and thus tell the enemy where to fire.
“Mine feel like they were made of lead and I can hardly drag ’em along after me,” the other replied, mistaking the meaning of Billy’s words.
“There goes still another shot; I wonder what they can be shooting at?”
Hearing Billy make this remark, Frank saw fit to answer him.
“I think they must believe we’re still hiding somewhere about the seaplane, which is partly visible from the rise; and every now and then they take a snap shot to let us know they’re on the job.”
At hearing that Pudge seemed to feel much easier in his mind, for there was a joyful strain to his voice when he next spoke in a husky whisper to Billy.
“That lets me out, Billy, and I’ll be able to hunch along better after this. But let me tell you I’ll be mighty glad when it’s all over with. I’m scraping my knees something awful, and I’ll be lame for days after this.”
“Well, why complain when you know there are some things a whole lot worse than having scraped knees?” he was told. Apparently this caused Pudge to look at things in a different light, for he closed up.