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:
"There's not much damage done on this side. We'll patch you up so well
that you will still be able to make conquests."
He smiles, touches his bandage, looks at his mutilated arm, seems to
lose himself for a while in memories, and murmurs:
"May be. But the girls will never come after me again as they used
to..."