One of the singularities of motoring on the main-travelled roads near
Paris is the prevalence of cars containing physicians and surgeons.
Whether it be testimony to the opportunism, to the sporting
proclivities, or to the prosperity of gentlemen of those professions, I
do not know, but it is a fact that I have never heard of an accident
(and in the season there is an accident every day) on one of these roads
when a doctor in an automobile was not almost immediately a chance
arrival, and fortunately our case offered no exception to this rule.
Another automobile had already come up and the occupants were hastily
alighting. Ward shouted to the foremost to go for a doctor.

"I am a doctor," the man answered, advancing and kneeling quickly by the
dancer. "And you--you may be of help yonder."

We turned toward the ruined car where Ward's driver was shouting for us.

"What is it?" called Ward as we ran toward him.

"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.