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.
"Be sure you see the Vice-President himself, Thomas," I said.
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