The Lee Shore | Page 3

said anything he might be sick. Besides, he didn't really want to walk;
his shoulder was hurting him very much. He was so white about the
cheeks and lips that Urquhart thought he had fainted.
After a little while, Urquhart was justified in his supposition; it was
characteristic of Peter to convert, as promptly as was feasible, any
slight error of Urquhart's into truth. So Peter knew nothing when
Urquhart carried him indoors and delivered him into other hands. He
opened his eyes next on the doctor, who was untying his arm and
cutting his sleeve and saying cheerfully, "All right, young man, all
right."
The next thing he said was, "I was told it had been put in."
"Yes," said Peter languidly. "But it came out again, I think."
"So it seems. Didn't they discover that down there?"
Peter moved his head limply, meaning "No."
"But you did, did you? Well, why didn't you say so? Didn't want to
have it hauled at again, I suppose? Well, we'll have it in directly. You
won't feel it much."
So the business was gone through again, and this time Peter not only
half but quite groaned, because it didn't matter now.
When the thing was done, and Peter rigid and swathed in bed, the
doctor was recalled from the door by a faint voice saying, "Will you
please not tell anyone it came out again?"
"Why not?" The doctor was puzzled.
"Don't know," said Peter, after finding that he couldn't think of a reason.
But then he gave the true one.

"Urquhart thought he'd got it in all right, that's all."
"Oh." The doctor was puzzled still. "But that's Urquhart's business, not
yours. It wasn't your fault, you know."
"Please," said Peter from the bed. "Do you mind?"
The doctor looked and saw feverish blue lamps alight in a pale face,
and soothingly said he did not mind. "Your shoulder, no one else's, isn't
it?" he admitted. "Now you'd better go to sleep; you'll be all right
directly, if you're careful not to move it or lie on it or anything."
Peter said he would be careful. He didn't at all want to move it or lie on
it or anything. He lay and had waking visions of the popping rabbits.
But they might pop as they liked; Peter hid a better thing in his inmost
soul. Urquhart had said, "Sorry to hurt you, Margerison. You were jolly
sporting, though." In the night it seemed incredible that Urquhart had
stooped from Valhalla thus far; that Urquhart had pulled in his arm
with his own hands and called him sporting to his face. The words, and
the echo of the soft, pleasant, casual voice, with its unemphasised
intonations, spread lifting wings for him, and bore him above the
aching pain that stayed with him through the night.
Next morning, when Peter was wishing that the crumbs of breakfast
that got between one's back and one's pyjamas were less sharp-cornered,
and wondering why a dislocated shoulder should give one an aching
bar of pain across the forehead, and feeling very sad because a letter
from home had just informed him that his favourite guinea-pig had
been trodden on by the gardener, Urquhart came to see him.
Urquhart said, "Hullo, Margerison. How are you this morning?" and
Peter said he was very nearly all right now, thanks very much. He
added, "Thanks awfully, Urquhart, for putting it in, and seeing after me
and everything."
"Oh, that's all right." Urquhart's smile had the same pleasant quality as
his voice. He had never smiled at Peter before. Peter lay and looked at
him, the blue lamps very bright in his pale face, and thought what a

jolly voice and face Urquhart had. Urquhart stood by the bed, his hands
in his pockets, and looked rather pleasantly down at the thin, childish
figure in pink striped pyjamas. Peter was fourteen, and looked less,
being delicate to frailness. Urquhart had been rather shocked by his
extreme lightness. He had also been pleased by his pluck; hence the
pleasant expression of his eyes. He was a little touched, too, by the
unmistakable admiration in the over-bright blue regard. Urquhart was
not unused to admiration; but here was something very whole-hearted
and rather pleasing. Margerison seemed rather a nice little kid.
Then, quite suddenly, and still in his pleasant, soft, casual tones,
Urquhart dragged Peter's immense secret into the light of day.
"How are your people?" he said.
Peter stammered that they were quite well.
"Of course," Urquhart went on, "I don't remember your mother; I was
only a baby when my father died. But I've always heard a lot about her.
Is she..."
"She's dead, you know," broke in Peter hastily, lest Urquhart should
make a mistake embarrassing to himself. "A