"Who? Who?"
"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.