leaving me all empty, with cold, tingly things rushing up again to
my head. They were still rushing as we flew around the rock, and I
kept saying:

"It can't be Greg.... It _can't_ be...."

But it was.

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