This seemed perfectly satisfactory to the
Gentleman, who drew his hat over his brows,
pulled up the collar of his coat and leaving the
groggery, made the best of his way homeward.

After his visiter had gone, the Bulgine approached
the prostrate loafer, and kicked him
with his splay foot.

“Get out o' dis. Dis 'ain't no place for you,
dam white trash.”

The loafer arose grumbling, and lounged lazily
to the door, which the Black Bulgine
closed after him, with the objurgation — “De
dam Killer; dar room is better as dar company.”

No sooner, however, had the Loafer passed
from the groggery into the court, than his lazy
walk changed into a brisk stride, his head rose
on his shoulders, and he seemed to have become
in a moment altogether a new man.

He passed from the court into the street,
where a couple of ruffian-like men stood beneath
the light of the street lamp. As he approached
them, he made a sign with his right
hand, and the two ruffians followed him like
dogs obeying the whistle of a master. Along
the dark and deserted street the loafer pursued
his way, until he came to the corner of a well-known
street leading from the Delaware to the
Schuylkill; a street which, by the bye, was
lighted at every five yards by a groggery or a
beer shop. At the corner, and near the door
of every groggery, stood groups of men, or
half-grown boys — sometimes five and sometimes
six or seven in a group. The Loafer
passed them all, repeating the sign which he
had given to the first two ruffians. And at the
sign the men and half-grown boys fell in his
wake; by the time he had gone half a square,
he was followed by at least twenty persons,
who tracked his footsteps without a word. For
a quarter of an hour they walked on, the silence
only broken by the shuffling of their feet.
At length arriving before an unfinished three-story
brick house (unfinished on account of
the numerous riots which have so long kept
the District of Moyamensing in a panic) they
silently ranged themselves around the “Loafer,”
whose sign they had followed.

“All Killers?” he said, anxiously scanning the
visages of the ruffians, boys and men, who
were only dimly perceptible by the star-light.

“All Killers,” was the answer.

The “Loafer” again made a sign with his
right hand, which was answered by the others,
and then exclaimed — “Come boys — we've
work to do. Let us enter the Den of the
Killers.”

And one by one they descended into the cellar
of the unfinished house — the “Loafer”

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

being the last. Indeed he remained on the
verge of the cellar door, for a few moments after
the others had disappeared. He looked
anxiously up and down the street, and placing
two fingers in his mouth, emitted a long and
piercing whistle. It was answered in a moment,
and from behind the corner of the building
came a person, whose slim form was muffled
in the thick folds of a cloak.

“All right?” said the new comer—and his
cloak falling aside for a moment, disclosed the
glare of a uniform.

“All right,” answered the “Loafer”—“The
boys are ripe for fun. Let us go up after them.—
What! You're not afraid?” he continued
as the other displayed some signs of hesitation.

“Not afraid Dick, but —you're sure of
them?” whispered the man in the cloak.

“I wish I was as sure of a safe landing in
Cuba, one month hence. Come along, my
boy! “The Killers and Cuba!” that's the
word. Come, and let me show you the Den of
the Killers!”

He grasped the hand of the stranger and
they descended into the cellar.