broken; asked him how he felt
now; asked him all manner of things, none of which Peter felt competent
to answer. His only remark, delivered in a rather weak and quavering
voice, was to the effect that he would walk directly, only he would like
to stay where he was a little longer, please. He said it very politely.
It was characteristic of Peter Margerison that misfortune always made him
very polite and pleasant in his manners, as if he was saying, "I am sorry
to be so tiresome and feeble: do go on with your own businesses, you more
fortunate and capable people, and never mind me."

As they stood in uncertainty about him, someone said, "There's Urquhart
coming," and Urquhart came. He had been playing on another ground. He
said, "What is it?" and they told him it was Margerison, his arm or his
shoulder or something, and he didn't want to be moved. Urquhart pushed
through the crowd that made way for him, and bent over Margerison and
felt his arm from the shoulder to the wrist, and Margerison bit at the
short grass that was against his face.

"That's all right," said Urquhart. "I wanted to see if it was sprained or
broken anywhere. It's not; it's just a put-out shoulder. I did that once,
and they put it in on the field; it was quite easy. It ought to be done
at once, before it gets stiff." He turned Peter over on his back, and
they saw that he was pale, and his forehead was muddy where it had
pressed on the ground, and wet where perspiration stood on it. Urquhart
was unlacing his own boot.

"I'm going to haul it in for you," he told Peter. "It's quite easy. It'll
hurt a bit, of course, but less now than if it's left. It'll slip in
quite easily, because you haven't much muscle," he added, looking at the
frail, thin, crooked arm. Then he put his stockinged foot beneath Peter's
arm-pit, and took the arm by the wrist and straightened it out. The other
thin arm was thrown over Peter's pale face and working mouth. The muddy
forehead could be seen getting visibly wetter. Urquhart threw himself
back and pulled, with a long and strong pull. Sharp gasps came from
beneath the flung-up left arm, through teeth that were clenched over a
white jersey sleeve. The thin legs writhed a little. Urquhart desisted,
breathing deeply.

"Sorry," he said; "one more'll do it." The one more was longer and
stronger, and turned the gasps into semi-groans. But as Urquhart had
predicted, it did it.

"There," said Urquhart, resting and looking please