"Have you hurt yourself badly?" Roger saw the deformed boy standing by his side, and then remembered that he had seen him sitting near by on the bank.
"I think I must have sprained my ankle," he replied.
The deformed boy knelt on the ice, and while the others clustered around, asking questions and offering suggestions, he quietly unbuckled his skates for him.
"I'll have to get home, I suppose," said Roger faintly; "but, boys, don't let this spoil your fun—don't come with me."
"May I go with you?" said the deformed boy. "I am not going to stay here any longer."
Roger thanked him, and a policeman coming up at that moment to inquire about the accident, a carriage was procured, Roger was put in, the deformed boy followed, and Roger was driven home.
"My fun is spoiled for this winter," he said, with a moan. "I know a fellow who sprained his ankle last year, and the doctor says perhaps he will never be able to skate again. What an unlucky thing for me!—it wasn't my fault either."
"No," added the deformed boy gently. "It was not your fault; and it was not my fault that my nurse let me fall when I was a baby and injured my back. I sometimes think it would have been better if she had killed me outright, though strong and well-formed people think it wicked for me to wish that."