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.