“SURE you can't move?” asked Bobbie, in a rather strange tone.
“Quite sure,” replied Peter. “Shall we play it's bleeding freely or not?” he asked cheerfully.
“YOU can play what you like,” said Bobbie, sternly, folding her arms and looking down at him where he lay all wound round and round with cord. “Phil and I are going away. And we shan't untie you till you promise never, never to talk to us about blood and wounds unless we say you may. Come, Phil!”
“You beast!” said Peter, writhing. “I'll never promise, never. I'll yell, and Mother will come.”
“Do,” said Bobbie, “and tell her why we tied you up! Come on, Phil. No, I'm not a beast, Peter. But you wouldn't stop when we asked you and—”
“Yah,” said Peter, “it wasn't even your own idea. You got it out of Stalky!”
Bobbie and Phil, retiring in silent dignity, were met at the door by the Doctor. He came in rubbing his hands and looking pleased with himself.
“Well,” he said, “THAT job's done. It's a nice clean fracture, and it'll go on all right, I've no doubt. Plucky young chap, too—hullo! what's all this?”
His eye had fallen on Peter who lay mousy-still in his bonds on the settle.
“Playing at prisoners, eh?” he said; but his eyebrows had gone up a little. Somehow he had not thought that Bobbie would be playing while in the room above someone was having a broken bone set.