VII
When I put my fingers near his injured eye, Croin recoils a little.
"Don't be afraid," I say to him.
"Oh, I'm not afraid!"
And he adds proudly:
"When a chap has lived on Hill 108, he can't ever be afraid of anything again."
"Then why do you wince?"
"It's just my head moving back of its own accord. I never think of it."
And it is true; the man is not afraid, but his flesh recoils.
When the bandage is properly adjusted, what remains visible of Groin's face is young, agreeable, charming. I note this with satisfaction, and say to him: