“No， there wasn‘t，” said Trumpkin. “Don’t tell me. I know when I am fairly beaten. I won‘t even say that the scar of my last wound catches me a bit when I get my arm well back.”
“Oh， are you wounded？” asked Lucy. “Do let me look.” “It’s not a sight for little girls，” began Trumpkin， but thenhe suddenly checked himself. “There I go talking like a fool again，” he said “I suppose you‘re as likely to be a great surgeon as your brother was to be a great swordsman or your sister to be a great archer.” He sat down on the steps and took off his hauberk and slipped down his little shirt， showing an arm hairy and muscular （in proportion） as a sailor’s though not much bigger than a child‘s. There was a clumsy bandage on the shoulder which Lucy proceeded to unroll. Underneath， the cut looked very nasty and there was a good deal of swelling. “Oh， poor Trumpkin，” said Lucy. “How horrid.” Then she carefully dripped on to it one single drop of the cordial from her flask.