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."

"Come on, then; you'll have to show me where it is. I won't let you get
hurt."

When we first wheeled into South Eutaw Street, I was conscious of an
almost painful stillness, more noticeable after the tumult of confused