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?"

"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?"