But so thoroughly dazed was he that he was
unable to move.
Finally someone discovered him and picked him up.
"Here's one of them," announced a bystander. "It's a kid, too."
Mr. Sparling came charging down the bank.
"Who is it? Where is he?" he bellowed.
"Here."
"It's Phil Forrest," cried one of the showmen, recognizing the
lad, whose face was streaked where it had been cut by the jagged
glass in the broken window.
"Is he killed?"
"No; he's alive. He's coming around now."
Phil sat up and rubbed his eyes.
All at once he understood what had happened. He staggered to his
feet holding to a man standing beside him.
"Why don't you do something?" cried Phil. "Don't you know there
are people in that car?"
"It's burning up. Nobody dares get in till the wreckers can get
here and smash in the side of the car," was the answer.
"What?" fairly screamed Phil Forrest. "Nobody dares go in
that car? Somebody does dare!"
"Come back, come back, Phil! You can't do anything," shouted a
fellow performer.
But the lad did not even hear him. He was leaping, falling
and rolling down the bank, regardless of the danger that he was
approaching, for the flames already showed through a broken spot
in the roof of the car, which was lying half on its side at the
foot of the embankment.
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