Ward, meanwhile, proved more practical.  He was dragging a woman out of the suffocating smoke and dust that shrouded the wreck, and after a moment I went to help him carry her into the fresh air, where George put his coat under her head.  Her hat had been forced forward over her face and held there by the twisting of a system of veils she wore; and we had some difficulty in unravelling this; but she was very much alive, as a series of muffled imprecations testified, leading us to conclude that her sufferings were more profoundly of rage than of pain.  Finally she pushed our hands angrily aside and completed the untanglement herself, revealing the scratched and smeared face of Mariana, the dancer.

“Cornichon!  Chameau!  Fond du bain!” she gasped, tears of anger starting from her eyes.  She tried to rise before we could help her, but dropped back with a scream.

“Oh, the pain!” she cried.  “That imbecile!  If he has let me break my leg!  A pretty dancer I should be!  I hope he is killed.”

One of the singularities of motoring on the main-travelled roads near Paris is the prevalence of cars containing physicians and surgeons.  Whether it be testimony to the opportunism, to the sporting proclivities, or to the prosperity of gentlemen of those professions, I do not know, but it is a fact that I have never heard of an accident (and in the season there is an accident every day) on one of these roads when a doctor in an automobile was not almost immediately a chance arrival, and fortunately our case offered no exception to this rule.  Another automobile had already come up and the occupants were hastily alighting.  Ward shouted to the foremost to go for a doctor.

“I am a doctor,” the man answered, advancing and kneeling quickly by the dancer.  “And you—­you may be of help yonder.”

We turned toward the ruined car where Ward’s driver was shouting for us.

“What is it?” called Ward as we ran toward him.

“Monsieur,” he replied, “there is some one under the tonneau here!”

The smoke had cleared a little, though a rivulet of burning gasoline ran from the wreck to a pool of flame it was feeding in the road.  The front cushions and woodwork had caught fire and a couple of labourers, panting with the run across the fields, were vainly belabouring the flames with brushwood.  From beneath the overturned tonneau projected the lower part of a man’s leg, clad in a brown puttee and a russet shoe.  Ward’s driver had brought his tools; had jacked up the car as high as possible; but was still unable to release the imprisoned body.

“I have seized that foot and pulled with all my strength,” he said, “and I cannot make him move one centimetre.  It is necessary that as many people as possible lay hold of the car on the side away from the fire and all lift together.  Yes,” he added, “and very soon!”

Some carters had come from the road and one of them lay full length on the ground peering beneath the wreck.  “It is the head of monsieur,” explained this one; “it is the head of monsieur which is fastened under there.”