I called to him--most plaintively, I remember; and he stopped and looked back.

Then he returned to me, climbing into the fork and examining the arrow.

He tried to pull it out, but one way the flesh resisted the barbed lead, and the other way it resisted the feathered shaft.

Also, it hurt grievously, and I stopped him.
For some time we crouched there, Lop-Ear nervous and anxious to be gone, perpetually and apprehensively peering this way and that, and myself whimpering softly and sobbing.

Lop-Ear was plainly in a funk, and yet his conduct in remaining by me, in spite of his fear, I take as a foreshadowing of the altruism and comradeship that have helped make man the mightiest of the animals.
Once again Lop-Ear tried to drag the arrow through the flesh, and I angrily stopped him.