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 role; 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 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.”