“Dey wan’s you down-y street.”

I stretched myself, reached mechanically for a match, and lighted the gas, which disclosed a small yellow boy, standing in the doorway, some fright and a good deal of excitement in his aspect.  I then detected that he had something important to tell, and that his errand was a source of gratification to him.

“Well, what is it?” I asked, after we had stared at one another.

“Ain’t yer yeared nuth’n’ ’tall?” a shade of contempt in his tone.

“No, what is there to hear?” I asked, rather irascibly.

“Dey’s a big fight down-town; de folks dey done tore de Six Reggimen’ all ter pieces, an’ dey’s wuk’n ’long on de Fif now.”

“Whereabouts?”

I started up, and got on my hat in an instant.

“Dey’s et Camd’ Street depot, now.  Ole colored gentlemun he’s been hurtid, an’ sent me atter you.”

It did not take half a minute to lock the door and we proceeded down-stairs together.

“He’s down yere on Eutaw Street,” continued my informant.  “Dey’s fightin’ all ‘long dere—­I come nigh gittin’ hit myself—­he gimme ten cents to come tell yer—­maybe he’s done dade now,” he added, cheerfully, as we gained the street, and began to walk.

“Dey fet all ’long yere,” was his next breathless remark, made some time later.  We were now proceeding rapidly up Baltimore Street, as rapidly, at least, as people can who are pushing against a steady stream of agitated humanity.  “Dey fawr’d a bullet clean through de Sun-paper room,” pursued the boy, “an’ dey bust up dem dere winder-glassis—­”

Pausing involuntarily to look, I caught stray scraps of additional information.

“Twenty-five people killed.”

“As many as that?”

“Oh, yes; fully, I should say.  The Sixth fired right into the crowd, all along from Gay to Eutaw Street.”

“Well, I hear the Sixth are pretty well cleaned out by this time, so it’s tit for tat.”

Then—­

“The Fifth must be there now—­”

“The Fifth?—­what are they—­two hundred men against two thousand?—­Lord knows how it will end.  I hope this old town won’t be burnt, that’s all.”  The boy, listening, turned fearfully around, looking with distended eyes into mine.  “Come on,” I responded, and we spoke no more until we reached Liberty Street.  Then, all at once, above the street noises—­the rumbling of fugitive vehicles, the jingle of street-cars, and the hum of excited voices—­rose a deep, hollow roar; a horrible sound of human menace in it, which was distinguishable even at that distance.  The boy pressed closer, clutching timidly at my hand.

“Is yer—­is yer gwine ter keep on?” he faltered.

“De ole gentlemun, he ’lowed puticler you wa’n’t to run no resk ’count o’ him.”

“Where is he?” I asked.  “In the thick of it?”

“No, sir; he’s lay’n’ down in a little alley—­clean off d’ street.”