As I was proceeding homeward one evening, I spied him standing on a street corner, holding forth to a select assemblage of his own color, who were listening to him with an appearance of the profoundest respect.  His back was toward me, and I stopped and caught his words without attracting observation.  He had assumed a very pompous, hortatory manner, and I could well believe he held a prominent position in Asbury class.  “Yes, gentlemun; yes,” he was saying, “ez Brotheh Jones ’mahks, I do live in a ve’y su-peeiaw at-mos-pheeh—­suh-roundid by people of leahnin’, with books, pens, blottehs, letteh-pess, en what not, ez common ez these yeah bricks which I see befo’ me.  But thaih hain’t no trueh wued then ev’y station has its hawdships, gentlemun, en mine ah not exemp’, mine ah not exemp’.

“Fus’ly, thaih’s the ‘sponsebility.  W’y, this yeah ve’y mawnin’ I banked nigh on to a thousan’ dollehs fu’ de young boss.  En w’en I tell you mo’n two hundred stamps is passed my mouth this yeah blessid evenin’, ’t will give you some slight idee of the magnitude of the duties I has to puffawn.  W’y, gentlemun, I is drank wateh, an’ I is drank beeh, but my mouth hain’t got back hits right moistuh yit.”

The day of the 20th of July, 1877, was very quiet We had heard, of course, of the “strikes” all over the country, and the morning papers brought tidings of the trouble with the Baltimore and Ohio railroad employes at Martinsburg, but no serious difficulty was apprehended in Baltimore.

That afternoon I was detained very late at the office.  I intended beginning a three weeks’ holiday next morning, and was trying to get beforehand with my work.  My senior was out of town, and Thomas and I had been very busy since three o’clock—­I writing, he copying the letters.  After five, we had the building pretty much to ourselves, and a little after half past five, the fire alarm sounded.  The City Hall bell was very distinctly heard, and Thomas—­who had finished his work and was waiting to take some papers to the office of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad for me—­took down a list of the different stations, to ascertain the whereabouts of the fire.

“1—­5,” he counted, as the strokes fell; “that makes fifteen, and that is,” passing his finger slowly down the card, “that is Eastun Po-lice station, cawneh—­naw, on Bank Street.  On Bank Street, seh.”

I listened an instant.

“1—­5—­1,” I said, “151; it isn’t fifteen.”

Another five minutes elapsed, while he searched for “151” I busily writing the while.

“Hit’s—­w’y, Lawd-a-massy!  Mist’ Dunkin, hit’s fu’ de milinte’y.”

“Let me see,” said I.  “Yes, so it is; but they only want them to go to Cumberland.  There’s a strike there, and the strikers are getting troublesome.”

He made no reply, and as the bells ceased ringing soon afterward, I resumed my work, which kept me busy until seven o’clock.  I then placed the papers in an envelope, and took up the letters.