“I'll tell you what they do,” said Peter. I can't think what made him so horrid. Perhaps it was because he had been so very nice and kind all the earlier part of the day, and now he had to have a change. This is called reaction. One notices it now and then in oneself. Sometimes when one has been extra good for a longer time than usual, one is suddenly attacked by a violent fit of not being good at all. “I'll tell you what they do,” said Peter; “they strap the broken man down so that he can't resist or interfere with their doctorish designs, and then someone holds his head, and someone holds his leg—the broken one, and pulls it till the bones fit in—with a crunch, mind you! Then they strap it up and—let's play at bone-setting!”
“Oh, no!” said Phyllis.
But Bobbie said suddenly: “All right—LET'S! I'll be the doctor, and Phil can be the nurse. You can be the broken boner; we can get at your legs more easily, because you don't wear petticoats.”
“I'll get the splints and bandages,” said Peter; “you get the couch of suffering ready.”
The ropes that had tied up the boxes that had come from home were all in a wooden packing-case in the cellar. When Peter brought in a trailing tangle of them, and two boards for splints, Phyllis was excitedly giggling.
“Now, then,” he said, and lay down on the settle, groaning most grievously.
“Not so loud!” said Bobbie, beginning to wind the rope round him and the settle. “You pull, Phil.”
“Not so tight,” moaned Peter. “You'll break my other leg.”
Bobbie worked on in silence, winding more and more rope round him.
“That's enough,” said Peter. “I can't move at all. Oh, my poor leg!” He groaned again.