But before the people who surged over the track, breaking all restraint, before the electric ambulance, Dick Ffrench reached the marred thing that had been the Mercury car. It was Lestrange who had painfully struggled to one knee beside the machine, fighting hard for breath to speak.
"Take the car off Rupert," he panted, at Dick's cry of relief on seeing him. "I'm all right—take the car off Rupert."
The next instant they were surrounded, overwhelmed with eager aid. The ambulance came up and a surgeon precipitated himself toward Lestrange.
"Stand back," the surgeon commanded generally. "Are you trying to smother him? Stand back."
But it was he who halted before a gesture from Lestrange, who leaned on Dick and a comrade from the camp.
"Go over there, to Rupert."
"You first—"
"No."
There was nothing to do except yield. Shrugging his shoulders, the surgeon paused the necessary moment. A moment only; there was a scattering of the hushed workers, a metallic crash.
From the space the car had covered a small figure uncoiled, lizardlike, and staggered unsteadily erect.