The Lee Shore | Page 2

point of his right shoulder
and lay on his face, his arm crooked curiously at his side, remarking
that he didn't think he was hurt, only his arm felt funny and he didn't
think he would move it just yet. People pressed about him; suggested
carrying him off the field; asked if he thought it was 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 pleased, as he always did
when he had accomplished something neatly. "Heard the click, didn't
you? It's in all right. Sorry to hurt you, Margerison; you were jolly
sporting, though. Now I'm going to tie it up before we go in, or it'll be
out again."
So he tied Peter's arm to Peter's body with his neck scarf. Then he took
up the small light figure in his arms and carried it from the field.
"Hurt much now?" he asked, and Peter shook an untruthful head and
grinned an untruthful and painful grin. Urquhart was being so
inordinately decent to him, and he felt, even in his pain, so extremely
flattered and exalted by such decency, that not for the world would he
have revealed the fact that there had been a second faint click while his
arm was being bound to his side, and an excruciating jar that made him
suspect the abominable thing to be out again. He didn't know how the
mechanism worked, but he was sure that the thing Urquhart had with
such labour hauled in had slipped out and was disporting itself at large
in unlawful territory. He said nothing, a little because he really didn't
think he could quite make up his mind to another long and strong pull,
but chiefly because of Urquhart and his immense decency. Success was
Urquhart's rôle; one did not willingly imagine him failing. If heroes fail,
one must not let them know it. Peter shut his eyes, and, through his
rather sick vision of trespassing rabbits popping in and out through

holes in a fence, knew that Urquhart's arms were carrying him very
strongly and easily and gently. He hoped he wasn't too heavy. He
would have said that he could walk, only he was rather afraid that if he