He was lying doubled up, just below the high place where Jerry had told him to keep watch.  We didn’t dare to touch him, because we didn’t know how badly he was hurt, and he couldn’t seem to tell us.  But when I tried to put my arm under him, he pushed me a little and said, “No, no,” so I stopped.  Then I saw that his right arm was twisted under him horridly and that his shoulder looked all wrong.  I touched it very gently and asked him if it was that, and he said, “Yes; don’t!” We had to get him out somehow from that jaggedy place in the rocks where he was lying.  So Jerry got him under the arm that wasn’t hurt, and I took his legs, and we hauled him to a flattish part of the rock.

I pulled off the football jersey and put it under him, and Jerry ran back to get my skirt, which I’d put in the kit-bag when we fixed our costumes.  Just after Jerry had gone something dreadful happened.  Quite suddenly Greg seemed to shrink smaller, and his face grew rather greenish and not at all like his, and his hand was perfectly cold when I snatched it.  I suppose he’d fainted from our carrying him so stupidly, but I’d never seen anybody do it before and I didn’t know that was the way it looked.  I’d never heard of people dying from hurting their arms, but I thought that perhaps he was hurt somewhere else that we didn’t know about.  But by the time Jerry came back with the skirt Greg had opened his eyes and looked at me a little like himself.  There is a book in our medicine cupboard at home called, “Hints on First Aid.”  Jerry and I used to like to look at it, and Father said: 

“Go ahead; you may need it some day.”  But neither of us could remember anything that was at all useful now.  I could plainly see the picture of some queerly-drawn hands doing a “Spanish Windlass,” but that wouldn’t have done poor Greg any good at all.  Jerry did remember that you ought to cut people’s clothes and not try to take them off in the ordinary way, so he took out his knife and ripped up the sleeve of Greg’s jumper and the shoulder-seam of the white brocaded waistcoat.  I don’t see how people can stand being Red Cross nurses in France, for I’m sure I never could be one.  Greg’s shoulder was quite awful,—­what we could see, for it was almost dark now.  There was nothing at all we dared to do.  We couldn’t even bathe it, for there was only sea-water, so I just sat and held Greg’s other hand and patted it.  He didn’t cry,—­I think the hurting was too bad for that,—­but he moaned a little, and sometimes he said, “Hurts, Chris.”

I tried to tell him a story, the way I did when we all had the measles and he was so much sicker than the rest of us, but he couldn’t listen.  So we just sat there in the dark—­it was perfectly dark now and we couldn’t see one another at all—­and I began to count the flashes of the Headland light—­two long and two short, two long and two short—­till I thought I should scream.  Suddenly Jerry said: 

“Are you hungry, Chris?”