There was but one thing Lad could do. And he did
it.
His body in a compact bunch, he rolled midway between the wheels;
making the single revolution at a speed the eye could scarce
follow,--a speed which jerked him from under the impending left
wheel which already had smitten him down.
Over him slid the wheel-locked car, through the mud of a recent
rain; while the boy clung to the emergency brake and yelled.
Over him and past him skidded the car. It missed the prostrate
dog,--missed him with all four wheels; though the rear axle's
housing smeared his snowy ruff with a blur of black grease.
On went the machine for another ten feet, before it could halt.
Then a chalk-faced delivery boy peered backward in fright,--to
see Lad getting painfully to his feet and holding perplexedly
aloft his tiny right forepaw in token of the dislocated shoulder.
The delivery boy saw more. In a swirl of black bad temper, Lady
had gathered herself up from the ditch where Lad's toss had
landed her. Without a moment's pause she threw herself upon the
luckless dog whose rough toss had saved her life.
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