There’s Urquhart coming, someone said, and Urquhart came. He had been playing on another ground.

He said, What is it? and they told him it was Peter Margerison, his arm or his shoulder or something, and he didn’t want to be moved.

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. He turned Peter over onto his back.

I’m going to haul it in for you, he said. Then he put his stockinged foot beneath Peter’s armpit, and took the arm by the wrist and straightened it out.

But that didn’t work. Not the first time.

Sorry, Urquhart 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?