then. You might
believe me."

"Bugle! Yes, I didn't give it a rub yesterday. Just hand it off that
peg."

Pen reached the bugle from where it hung by its green cord, and the
lines in Punch's young forehead began to fade as he gave the instrument
a touch with his sleeve, and then placed the mouthpiece to his lips,
filled out his sadly pale, hollow cheeks, and looked as if he were going
to blow with all his might, when he was checked by Pen clapping his hand
over the glistening copper bell.

"Whatcher doing of?" cried the boy angrily.

"Stopping you. There, you see you are better. You couldn't have
attempted that a while ago."

"Ya! Think I'm such a silly as to bring the enemy down upon us?"

"Well, I didn't know."

"Then you ought to. I should just like to give the call, though, to set
our dear old lads going along the mountain-side there skirmishing and
peppering the frog-eating warmints till they ran for their lives."

"Hurrah!" shouted Pen. "Who's trying to bring the enemy down upon us
now, when we know there are some of them sneaking about in vedettes as
they hold both ends of the valley. Now you say you are not better if
you dare."

"Oh, I don't want to fall out," grumbled the invalid. "You think you
know, but you ain't got a wound in your back to feel when a cold wind
comes off the mountains. I think I ought to know best."

"But you don't, Punch. Those pains will die out in time, and you will
go on growing, and keeping thin perhaps for a bit; but your muscles will
fill out by-and-by, same as mine do in this beautiful air."

"Needn't be so precious proud of them," said the boy sourly.

"I'm not. There, have another fish."

"Sha'n't. I'm sick to death on them. They are only Spanish or
Portuguee trout, and not half so good as roach and dace out of a good
old English pond."

Pen laughed merrily again.

"Ah, grin away! I think I ought to know."

"Yes--better than to grumble when I have broiled the fish so nicely over
the wood embers with sticks I cut for skewers. They were delicious, and
I ate till I felt ashamed."

"So you ought to be."

"To enjoy myself so," continued Pen, "while you, with your mouth so out
of taste and no appetite, could hardly eat a bit."

"Well, who's to have a happetite with a wound like mine? I shall never
get no better till I get a mug of real old English beer."

"Never mind; you get plenty of milk."

"Ya! Nasty, sickly stuff! I'll never touch it