No one knew, in the confusion, just how it had happened. Mr. Hartshorn had been driving as slowly and carefully as he could under difficulties. A moment before Rags had been barking riotously and leaping at the hand of his master who stood perched precariously on the running board. Now he lay, mute and motionless, all the joy gone out of him, his eyes raised in dumb pleading to his master's face.
A sudden hush fell over the noisy crowd. Even the dogs seemed to know that something dreadful had happened. Mr. Hartshorn stopped his car and leaped out. Jimmie Rogers was kneeling on the ground beside his beloved dog, his face very white, and Rags was feebly trying to lick his master's hand.
Jimmie did not weep or cry out, but when Mr. Hartshorn came up, there was a pleading look in the eyes he lifted to the man's face which was much like the look in the eyes of the dog. Jimmie did not ask any questions. He only moved over a little while Mr. Hartshorn leaned over and tenderly felt of poor Rags's broken body.
"I must have gone square over him with both wheels," said he. "Poor little Rags! I wouldn't have done it, old boy, if I'd seen you. You know that, don't you?"
The dog's forgiving tongue gave him his answer. Mr. Hartshorn did not scold the boys, but they all knew they had been to blame, and no amount of scolding could have made them feel any more remorseful. They stood about in silent shame and dread. The irrepressible Mr. O'Brien trotted up to see what it was all about, sniffed at Rags, and then walked slowly away, raising questioning eyes to his master's face.
When Mr. Hartshorn arose he was winking very hard and biting his lip.
"Is he much hurt, sir?" asked Horace.
"I'm afraid so," said he. "We must get him away at once. Jump into the car, Jimmie, and come along with me."
He made a soft bed of the auto robe on the floor of the car, lifted Rags tenderly in his arms, and laid him on it.
"Watch him, and keep him as comfortable as possible," he directed Jimmie.