“Put the rope over that stump. Can you manage with one hand? Here, let me—Done it? Good. A-ah!”
He blew a great cloud of smoke into the air, and sighed contentedly.
“I hope you don’t smoke, Mike?”
“No.”
“Rotten trick for a boy. When you get to my age you need it. Boys ought to be thinking about keeping themselves fit and being good at games. Which reminds me. Let’s have a look at the wrist.”
A hunted expression came into Mike’s eyes.
“It’s really nothing,” he began, but his uncle had already removed the sling, and was examining the arm with the neat rapidity of one who has been brought up to such things.
To Mike it seemed as if everything in the world was standing still and waiting. He could hear nothing but his own breathing.
His uncle pressed the wrist gingerly once or twice, then gave it a little twist.
“That hurt?” he asked.