"I don't know, but he's on his face--with blood all over his back. He's been shot!" Oakes turned to Moore. His arm made that quick, silent movement so peculiarly his own and rested lightly on the physician's shoulder. "The shooting you heard," he remarked. Moore turned pale and seemed almost to stagger. "Meant for me!" he blurted out. "Yes, and Martin got it instead," said Oakes. "Come!" and in an instant he was off down the road. We followed, and the crowd of about thirty closed in. It was a quick dash down that turnpike. Never had early-riser in Mona had such an experience before. The terrific flight of the milk-wagon and its dramatic ending had inspired life in the crowd. Hotel porters, barmen and milkman, gentlemen and loafers, all went down that road with one object in view--the succoring of a fellow being. As we ran, the strongest forged ahead. Moore and myself came abreast in the rear of the leaders, but near to the bunch. "Terrible! Poor Martin!" said Moore. "Keep quiet," I said between breaths. A murmur arose in the crowd. "Look at that fellow," said a runner near us. We looked. It was Quintus; he was steadily distancing all. "Gosh! Ain't he a beaut?" said another. "Look at Oakes," said I. "Shut up," said Moore. "Call him Clark, now." The heavy breathing around us became noticeable; men were tiring now. It was a hard run. Away up in the lead was the solitary figure of our friend, running with body pitched a little forward and the long, even stride of the athlete. My mind now recalled that Oakes was a runner in college--a noted one in his day. Swish, swish! thump, thump! went the feet of those around us--and always that tall figure in the lead, taking the ground like a thoroughbred, and steadily increasing the distance between us. As we reached the crest of the hill to turn down, the milk-wagons were beginning to rumble behind us and the sounds of the approaching crowd of vehicles and belated citizens became distinct. We dashed down the slope and beheld Oakes--in the lead--halt, and bend over a figure. He seemed to be speaking to the injured man. As we drew near, we saw the blood and heard the sighing breathing. "Dying!" said Moore, by my side. We all encircled the victim, and Dr. Moore bent over him. Then he and Oakes straightened up suddenly, and removed their hats. We all knew what had taken place. The motley crowd uncovered, panting and pale-faced. "Dead!" said Oakes, and turned to Moore, who had joined me in the crowd. "Be careful," he said. "The murdered man is _not_ Martin." The rougher of the followers started to move the body, so as to see the face. Again Oakes showed his power to lead. "Stop, men; this is a crime. Don't touch the body. Wait for the police and the coroner." They obeyed. The first official now arrived on a wagon. He hesitated as he saw the bloody back; and then turned the face so that all could see it. Several stepped forward, and a cry of consternation arose: "_It's Winthrop Mark!_"