"Watkins--it was a dog!" cried Patricia.
"I know it. He'll be more careful next time!"
Renée had covered her eyes. Pat sprang from her seat and leaned toward the chauffeur.
"Stop!" she cried so commandingly that he ground on the brake. "I think you're--you're awful to go on and leave the poor dog!" Tears threatened her voice. She opened the door and sprang out, followed by Renée.
But another little girl had gone to the dog's rescue. Sheila Quinn, walking homeward from school, had seen the accident. She had run out into the street and had gathered the dog into her arms. When Pat and Renée had reached the spot she had laid Mr. Dog upon the grass and was examining him.
"Is he dead?" cried Pat and Renée in one voice.
"Oh, no! See him try to lick my hand! He knows we want to help him! I guess he's more scared than hurt! Here, it is his leg. See, it is broken."
"How can you tell?" asked Pat, filled with admiration at the quick careful way Sheila had examined their patient.
"Run your hand gently over his body; see, it doesn't hurt him! But look at his leg--how it hangs! And watch him, he'll wince if I just move as though to touch it! We won't hurt you, doggie dear, just keep quiet and we'll fix you up all nice."
"What will we do?" asked Pat anxiously.