Take it from me. It is not pleasant to be wounded, even in a good
cause.
To be shot in the back by a man standing upon a roof, with a
scatter-gun, is not merely physically painful; it is, in addition,
humiliating, because it also wounds one's _amour propre_.
At once I decided not to tell Vera what had happened. She was kind,
sympathetic, and for many other things I loved her, but instinctively I
knew that she would laugh if I told her the truth, and I was in no fit
state then to be laughed at.
Indeed, merely to laugh gave me pain--a great deal of pain. It seemed
to drive a lot of little sharp spikes into the holes made by the
pellets.
Doctor Agnew--for I had returned to town that night, being extremely
anxious to see Thorold again--to whom I exposed my lacerated back, made
far too light of the matter, I thought--far too light of it. He said
the pellets were "just under the skin"--I think he murmured something
about "an abrasion of the cuticle," whatever that may mean--and that he
would "pick them all out in half a jiffy." I hate doctors who talk
slang, and I hinted that I thought an anaesthetic might be advisable.
"Anaesthetic!" he echoed, with a laugh. "Oh, come, Mr. Ashton," Agnew
added, "you must be joking. Yes--I see that you are joking."