“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.”
“Eh, but you are wiser than Clemenceau!” said the chauffeur. “Get up, my ancient, and you there, with the brushwood, let the fire go for a moment and help, when I say the word. And you, monsieur,” he turned to Ward, “if you please, will you pull with me upon the ankle here at the right moment?”
The carters, the labourers, the men from the other automobile, and I laid hold of the car together.
“Now, then, messieurs, LIFT!”
Stifled with the gasoline smoke, we obeyed. One or two hands were scorched and our eyes smarted blindingly, but we gave a mighty heave, and felt the car rising.
“Well done!” cried the chauffeur. “Well done! But a little more! The smallest fraction—HA! It is finished, messieurs!”
We staggered back, coughing and wiping our eyes. For a minute or two I could not see at all, and was busy with a handkerchief.