He arose and hopped over to a flat rock, near where his pony now stood grazing as though nothing had happened.
Drawing off his boot, Ferguson made a rapid examination of the ankle.
It was inflamed and painful, but not broken.

He believed he could see it swelling.

He rubbed it, hoping to assuage the pain.

The woolen sock interfered with the rubbing, and he drew it off.
For a few minutes he worked with the ankle, but to little purpose.

He finally became convinced that it was a bad sprain, and he looked up, scowling.