“Let us get a great deal of wood,” said a sprightly-looking, slender young soldier, to his comrades; “our limbs must not be stiff to-day. I think to-morrow all will go off bravely, and we will prepare a strong soup for the Austrians.”
“And instead of the noodles, we will send them cannon-balls,” said a comrade, standing near him. “But see here, brother, as we are not going to fight this evening, I think we should make use of the time and cook a soup for ourselves. When we have wood enough for a good fire, we will set the kettle over it, and the best of pastimes will be ready. Shall we do it, comrades? Every man a groschen, and Charles Henry Buschman to cook the noodles.”
“Yet, Buschman must cook the noodles; no one understands it so well as he. Charles Henry Buschman! Where hides the fellow? He is generally sticking to Fritz Kober, and they are chatting together as if they were lovers. Buschman! Charles Henry Buschman! Where are you?”
“Here I am!” cried a bright, fresh voice, and a slender youth, belonging to Prince Henry’s regiment, stepped forward and joined them. “Who calls me?—what do you want?”
“We want you to cook noodles for us, Buschman; every man pays a groschen, and eats to his heart’s content. You shall have them for nothing, because you prepare them.”
“I will have nothing that I don’t pay for,” said Charles Henry, proudly; “I can pay as well as the rest of you, and perhaps I have more money than all of you; for while you are drinking, smoking, and playing, I put my groschens aside for a rainy day.”
“Yes, that is true; Buschman is the most orderly, the most industrious of us all,” said Fritz Kober, as he nodded lovingly to his young friend. “He does not drink, or smoke, or play; and, I can tell you, he sews like a woman. He mended a shirt for me to-day. A ball had passed through it at Rossbach, making a hole in the left sleeve. I tell you, the shirt looks as if a clever woman had mended it.”
“Well, it is a pity he isn’t one,” said one of the soldiers, with a merry laugh; “perhaps you have a sister at home, Henry, whom you could give to Kober.”
“No, comrade,” said Charles Henry, sadly; “I have neither father, mother, sister, nor brother. I am alone in the world, and have no other friend but my comrade, Fritz Kober. Will you not give him to me, comrades? Will you tease him because he is the friend of a poor, young fellow, against whom you have nothing to say except that he is just seventeen years old and has no heard and his voice a little thin, not able to make as much noise as yourself? Promise me that you will not laugh at Fritz again because he is kind to, and loves a poor, forsaken boy. If you tease him, he will become desperate and run off from me, and then, when I fall in battle, he will not close my eyes as he has promised to do.”
“I will never run away from you, darling brother,” said Fritz Kober. “We two shall stay together in camp and in battle. You have won me with your soft, black eyes: they remind me of those of my good, faithful Phylax.”