And then at the end, quite casually, he mentioned that he had been badly wounded and that his left leg would never be much use again.
After that I got frequent letters, and I wrote to him every week and sent him every kind of parcel I could think of.

His letters used to make me both ashamed and happy.

I had always banked on old Peter, and here he was behaving like an early Christian martyr--never a word of complaint, and just as cheery as if it were a winter morning on the high veld and we were off to ride down springbok.

I knew what the loss of a leg must mean to him, for bodily fitness had always been his pride.

The rest of life must have unrolled itself before him very drab and dusty to the grave.