The fat man was all tangled up in the robes and in the broken fittings of the cab. He could do nothing for himself, let alone assist in the rescue of the owner of the crippled little limbs. The dog, darting about, barked wildly.
As Nan stooped to lift the broken cab door off the apparently injured boy, the dog—he was only a puppy—ran yapping at her in a fever of apprehension. But his barking suddenly changed to yelps of joy as he leaped on Nan and licked her hands.
"Why, Buster!" gasped the girl, recognizing the little spaniel that she and Bess Harley had befriended in the snow-bound train.
She knew instantly, then, whose was the fat and apoplectic face; but she did not understand about the legs in the cruel looking iron braces until she had drawn a small and sharp-featured lad of seven or eight years of age from under the debris of the taxi-cab.
"Jingo! Look at Pop!" exclaimed the crippled boy, who seemed not to have been hurt at all in the accident.
Mr. Ravell Bulson was trying to struggle out from under the cab. And to his credit he was not thinking of himself at this time.
"How's Junior?" he gasped. "Are you hurt, Junior?"
"No, Pop, I ain't hurt," said the boy with the braces. "But, Jingo! you do look funny."
"I don't feel so funny," snarled his parent, finally extricating himself unaided from the tangle. "Sure you're not hurt, Junior?"
"No, I'm not hurt," repeated the boy. "Nor Buster ain't hurt. And see this girl, Pop. Buster knows her."