“Now,” he said, “I dare say you could! There are enough footholds, but of course I will go up first. Then, as I couldn’t reach to your hands, I’ll let down two long loops of cords to you, which you can pull yourself up by.”
“No, thank you,” I replied ungratefully. “I had much rather trust to clutching at the stones or the ivy.” For though the ivy was cleared on this side, branches here and there came straggling over.
Moore took my snub quietly.
“You will see,” he said, “once I am up, you’ll be glad enough of the loops.”
See I did not; for, alas! just as the boy was close to the top, something, I know not what—a loosened brick perhaps—gave way, and with a cry he fell heavily, poor child, down on to the ground beside where I stood. At first I was too terrified to think of anything but him; for a moment or two I thought he was killed, and my relief was great when he spoke.
“I’m not badly hurt, Reggie,” he whispered; “my head’s all right, it is only my—” and a little moan escaped him—“my ankle,” he continued. “Can I have broken it?”
He sat up and began to examine it. Even in the dim light I could see that he was very pale.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “if I could get my shoe off! My foot feels bursting!”
I was not altogether without experience in injuries of the kind. With so many brothers always coming to grief more or less, I had acquired a smattering of “first aid to the injured,” as it is called nowadays. I stooped down, and getting Moore’s pocket-knife from him, I cut the shoelaces, and rather deftly, I flattered myself, released the poor, already painfully swollen foot.
“No,” I said, “I think and hope it is only a bad sprain. But even if no worse, you cannot possibly attempt to stand, or drag yourself along with it in such a state.”