pany.

"Why, Punch, lad!" he said, "not hurt much, are you?"

"That you, Private Gray?"

"Yes. But tell me, are you wounded?"

"Yes!" half-groaned the boy; and then with a sudden access of
excitement, "Here, I say, where's my bugle?"

"Oh, never mind your bugle. Where are you hurt?" cried the boy's
comrade.

"In my bugle--I mean, somewhere in my back. But where's my instrument?"

"There it is, in the grass, hanging by the cord."

"Oh, that's better," groaned the boy. "I thought all our chaps had gone
on and left me to die."

"And now you see that they hav'n't," said the boy's companion. "There,
don't try to move. We mustn't be seen."

"Yes," almost babbled the boy, speaking piteously, "I thought they had
all gone, and left me here. I did try to ketch up to them; but--oh, I
am so faint and sick that it's all going round and round! Here, Private
Gray, you are a good chap, shove the cord over my head, and take care
the enemy don't get my bugle. Ah! Water--water, please! It's all
going round and round."

Penton Gray made no effort now to look round for danger, but, unstopping
his water-bottle, he crept closer to his companion in adversity, passed
the strap of the boy's shako from under his chin, thrust his cap from
his head to lie amongst the grass, and then opened the collar of his
coatee and began to trickle a little water between the poor fellow's
lips and sprinkled a little upon his temples.

"Ah!" sighed the boy, as he began to revive, "that's good! I don't mind
now."

"But you are hurt. Where's your wound?" said the young private eagerly.

"Somewhere just under the shoulder," replied the boy. "'Tain't bleeding
much, is it?"

"I don't know yet.--I won't hurt you more than I can help."

"Whatcher going to do?"

"Draw off your jacket so that I can see whether the hurt's bad."

"'Tain't very," said the boy, speaking feebly of body but stout of
heart. "I don't mind, comrade. Soldiers don't mind a wound.--Oh, I
say!" he cried, with more vigour than he had previously evinced.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Yes, you just did. Were you cutting it with your knife?"

"No," said his comrade with a half-laugh, as he drew his hand from where
he had passed it under the boy's shoulder. "That's what cut you,
Punch," and he held up a ragged-looking bullet which had dropped into
his fingers as he manipulated the wound.

"Thought you was cutting me with your knife," said the boy, speaking
with some en