"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 rôle; 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."