A sudden cry of anguish came not twenty feet from where the girls stood and, glancing in the direction of the cry, Shirley beheld the head of a little girl of perhaps ten years protruding from beneath the débris.
“Poor thing,” she cried, and dashed forward.
Mabel followed.
In vain did the tot struggle to extricate herself from beneath the wreckage. Crying and screaming, she continued her futile efforts.
At sight of the two girls dashing toward her she cried even more piteously than before.
Shirley caught hold of one arm that was extended, and pulled. Again and again she tried, but in vain; and the harder she pulled the harder the child cried.
Mabel stooped close and made an examination.
“There seems to be a wheel on her foot,” she said, “and she is not strong enough to pull herself from under it.”
Shirley let loose of the tot’s arm, and stooped over the child. Then she rose swiftly, determination written upon her face.
“You pull the child by the arm when I say, ‘Ready!’” she called.