Anyhow, one day Peter tumbled on to the 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.”