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."

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.