“Be sure you see the Vice-President himself, Thomas,” I said.  “You know him, don’t you?”

Receiving no reply, and turning to ascertain the cause of his silence, I saw he was leaning out at the open window, gazing earnestly northward toward Baltimore Street.

“Thomas!  Thomas!” I shouted.

He heard me at last, and withdrawing his head, apologized for his inattention.

“I thought—­I heehed sup’n nutha like a hollehin’ kine of a noise, an’—­some guns, aw sup’n, an’ I wuz look’n’ to see, but thaih don’t ‘peah to be nuthin’ goin’ on.”

“They’re mending the railroad on Baltimore Street,” I said.  “I suppose that is what you heard.”  And I gave the papers into his hand repeating my directions:  “If the gentleman is not there, don’t leave them on any account.  I’ll wait here until you get back—­but go first to the post-office and mail these.”

He wrapped the papers carefully in his handkerchief, placed them in his vest-pocket, and started off.

After he left, I leaned my elbow on the dusty window-sill and lounged there awhile, watching him as he trotted busily down the deserted street; then, rousing myself, I stretched my weary limbs and set about arranging my desk, closing the safe, etc.  At last everything was put in order, and I seated myself in an arm-chair, rubbing my cramped fingers and wrist, and afterward consulting my watch, more for something to do than to ascertain the time, which the clock on the mantel-piece would have told me.

Only quarter past seven, and he might be detained until, half-past eight.  I leaned back and closed my eyes.  How still and hot it was!  I believe I was the only human being in that whole long block of big buildings on that July evening.  Everything was as quiet as the typical country churchyard.  I had a lethargic sense now and then of the far-off tinkle of a car-bell.  I could catch a distant rumble from a passing vehicle a block or two away.  And, yes, I did observe the presence of a dull, continuous drone, which proceeded from the direction of Baltimore Street, but just as I sat up to hearken, some one passing whistled, “Silver Threads among the Gold,” the melody tracing itself upon the stillness like phosphoric letters in a dark room.  I listened with vivid interest, but the tune presently grew fainter, faded, and was dissolved into the dusk, leaving me lonelier than before, and too sleepy to give my attention to the strange hum, of which I again became dully conscious.  It is tiresome work waiting here with nothing to do, was my last drowsy thought, as I folded my arms on the desk, and rested my head upon them, to be aroused by a knocking at my door.

“Come in,” I called.

The door creaked on its hinges, and somebody entered.  I waited an instant, when an adolescent voice of the colored persuasion asked: 

“Do somebody name Mist’ Dunkin live here?”

“Yes.  I’m here; what do you want?”