Now we return to the Loafer and his friend
in uniform, whom we left for a short time in
part XI.

The Loafer jumped into the cellar of the
unfinished house, and was followed by his
friend, whose slim figure and bright uniform
was hidden in his cloak. Scrambling in silence
through the dark cellar, they ascended
in the darkness into the upper rooms of the
unfinished house, the Loafer leading his friend
by the hand. Arriving at the head of the
second flight of stairs, where a faint light came
through a window, the Loafer said:

“Wait here a minute, Captain. I'll go in
and see the boys. Do you hear 'em?”

“Hear them?” said the Captain, with

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something of a foreign accent —“Do you think I'm
deaf?”

He did indeed hear them, for a clamor like
Babel resounded from a room which was dirided
from the entry on the third floor by a
partition of lath and plaster. Shrouding himself
in his cloak, the Captain leaned against
the wall, and looked out of the window, while
the Loafer entered the room from which the
clamor proceeded.

It was somewhat gorgeously lighted — the
candles being of tallow, and porter bottles
serving for candlesticks. The walls, although
but newly plastered, were black with smoke,
and ornamented with the heraldic devices of
the Killers, such as
“THE KILLERS FOR EVER!” Or again, in a more lively vein,
“GO IT KILLERS!” Or yet once more

“DOWN WITH THE BOUNCERS!”

(The Bouncers, be it understood, are a rival
gang of desperadoes.) The room was destitute
of chairs or tables; indeed it was without
furniture of any kind. The porter bottles
containing the candles were arranged at various
distances from each other — in a sort of an
oblong circle — along the uncarpeted floor.

Around each candle, seated on the floor, was
a group of men and boys, who were drinking
bad whiskey — fingering dirty cards — smoking
pestilential segars — and swearing vigorously
in the intervals of whiskey, cards, and
cigars. These were the Killers, and this was
the Den of the Killers.

And into this foul den entered the Loafer in
his grey rags. He was hailed by a “Hurrah
for Bob Blazes, the Captain of the Killers!”
He answered the shout in as hearty a manner,
and then flinging a couple of dollars on the
floor, added, “Some more rum, boys! We
may as well make a night of it.”

Then looking beneath the front of his cap,
he silently surveyed “the Killers.” It was a
fine spectacle. They were divided into three
classes — beardless apprentice boys who, after
a hard day's work, had been turned loose upon
the street, at night, by their Masters or
“Bosses”— young men of nineteen and twenty
who, fond of excitement, had assumed their
name and joined the gang for the mere fun of
the thing, and who would either fight for a
man or knock him down, just to keep their
hand in — and fellows with countenances that
reminded you of a brute and devil, well intermingled.
These last were the smallest in the
number, but the most ferocious of the three.
These, the third class, not more than ten in
number, were the very worst specimens of the
savage of this large city. Brawny fellows,
with faces embruted by hardship, rum, and
crime, they were “just the boys” to sack a
theatre or burn a church.

It was to these that Bob Blazes, the Leader
of the Killers, addressed himself.

“Come, lieutenants, let's go into the next
room. While the boys have their fun here,
we'll cut out some fun for to-morrow. To-morrow's
'lection day.”

The eleven ruffians rose at his bidding, and
followed him into the next room, the foremost
carrying a porter bottle in his hand.

This room was larger than the first, and
along the windows which opened upon the
street, rough pieces of pine board were nailed.
Rougher pieces of old carpet were huddled in
the corners — these were the beds of the
“lieutenants” in which they slept away the
day, after a night of rum and riot — and the
mantelpiece was adorned with broken pipes
and empty bottles. The walls were quite pictorial,
being plastered over with theatre bills,
on which the names of “Jakey,” “Mose,”
and “Lize” appeared in conspicuous letters;
thus hinting at the fact in city life, that the
pit of the theatre sometimes educates Killers,
even as the box of the theatre very often produces
full fledged puppies, who carry hair on
their upper lips and opera-glasses in their
hands.

Taking his position in the centre of the
room, with the eleven ruffians around him,
Bob Blazes surveyed their hang-dog faces in
silence for a few moments, and then began:

“In a week, my boys, we'll start for Cuba.
`Cuba, gold, and Spanish women,' that's our
motto! You know that I'm in communication
with some of the heads of the Expedition;
I was told to pick out the most desperate
devils I could find in Moyamensin'. I've
done so. You've signed your names, and received
your first month's pay. In a week
you'll go on to New York with me, and then

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hurrah for `Cuba, gold, and Spanish women'”

“Hurrah for `Cuba, gold, and Spanish women!
' ”

Bob Blazes raised his cap, and displayed a
sunburnt face, encircled by sandy whiskers,
and with the scar of a frightful wound under
the left eye. There was a kind of ferocious
beauty about that countenance. It was the face
of a man of twenty-three, who has seen and
suffered much, and known life on land and sea,
in brothel and bar-room, and, perhaps, in the—
Jail.

“Wait a minute, boys, and I'll show you
something,” said Bob, and, without another
word, hurried from the room. In a moment
he returned, holding a cloaked figure by the
hand, much to the surprise and wonder of the
Killers.

“This is your Captain. Captain Jack
Jones, allow me to make you acquainted with
the very cream of the Killers. Three cheers,
my boys, for Jack Jones!”

And while the cheers shook the room, the
stranger removed his hat — disclosing a dark
complexioned and whiskered face — and flung
his cloak upon his right arm — thus revealing
a very handsome blue and gold uniform, which
fitted his slender form, like a glove to a woman's
hand. Jack Jones bowed and laid his
hand upon his heart, and said, in good English,
spiced with a Spanish accent —

“Gentlemen, I'm exceedingly proud to meet
you.” As he said this, his dark eyes twinkled
under the dark brows, and he gave a twist to
his jet black mustache. “I have a trifle here,
in the way of coin, which I'd like to see expended
on our outfit —” He scattered some
gold pieces on the floor with the air of a theatrical
King giving away theatrical money —
“And our friend, Bob Blazes, here, will explain
the rest.”

With these words he resumed his hat and
cloak and stepped to the door, while the Killers—
all save one — were scrambling for the
money. When they had accomplished this
feat, they looked around for Captain Jack
Jones, but he was gone.

“Never mind him,” cried Bob Blazes —
“He's got important business to attend to, to-night,
and can't be with us. Bring out the
whiskey, and let's have a talk.”

The whiskey was brought; and all the
Killers participated therein, save the one who
was stretched in the corner on a pile of old
carpets.

“To-morrow night is election night, and we
may as well make a raise before we go.
Thus spoke Bob Blazes, and his sentiments
were greeted with a chorus of oaths.

“To make a long story short, boys, to-morrow
night, a rich nabob of Walnut street, who
has failed for $200,000, and who carries a
great part of his money about him — for fear
of his creditors, who could lay hold of houses
or lands if he owned either — to-morrow
night, this nabob comes down to the groggery
in Dog Alley, kept by the big nigger —”

“The Bulgine! D—n him,” said ten
voices in a breath.

“He's coming there on some dirty work.
Now I move that we set a portion of our gang
to raise the devil among the niggers of Mary
street, while we watch for the nabob, and get
hold of him, and bring him to our den.”

This sentiment met with an unanimous response.
Placing the candle on the floor, Bob
squatted beside it, and motioned to the others
to follow his example. Presently a circle of
“gallows” faces surrounded the light, with the
sunburnt and scarred visage of Bob Blazes in
the centre.

As for the solitary Killer, he still reclined
on his couch of old carpets — apparently overcome
with rum or sleep.

“He carries some two or three thousand
dollars about him,” said Bob. “His name is—
never mind his name. Now follow my directions.
You, Bill, will take care and get a
police officer or two to help our gang to raise
a muss among the niggers. You, Jake, will
head half of the boys, and first raise an alarm
of fire. You, Tom, will come with me, and
hang around the groggery in Dog Alley, tomorrow
night, after dark. And as for you,
Sam, you'd better see Hickory Parchment, the
Politician, and get him to wink at our little
muss — that is if we do raise a muss. Now
let's understand one another —”

And while he laid down before this Senate
of the Killers, his plan of operations for the
Mexican Campaign of the ensuing night, the
shouts of the banqueting Killers, in the next
room, came through the partition, like the yells

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of so many Congressmen engaged in getting
up a fight on the last day of the session.

At length the matter was clearly understood.
Deep in whiskey, the ten Killers shouted hurrah!
at every other word of their leader. while
the eleventh lay upon his bed of old carpets in
one corner. His evident inattention to the
business in contemplation at length aroused
the curiosity of Bob Blazes, the Leader.

“Who's that snoring there in the corner,” he
asked.

“It's only Lije — Lije Watson, who's just
got out o' the Penitenshery,” answered one of
the eleven — “He was in for passin' counterfeit
money — you know, I told you all about
it the other day. He's a little drunk, I guess.”

“Not so drunk as you think,” answered that
peculiarly husky voice, which we have heard
before, “ `Not drunk, only reflectin',' as Judge
Tomahawk said when the Temperance Society
waited on him, to thank him for his temperance
speeches and found him drunk.”

And as he said this, Elijah arose from his
pile of carpets, and squatted down in the midst
of the Killers, directly opposite their Leader.

“Drink somethin', Lije,” cried one —
“You're pale as thunder.”

“What makes your eyes look so queer?”
said another. “Got a touch o' the man with
the poker?”

Elijah was indeed frightfully pale. His
eyes sunk deep in their sockets, had a wild and
glassy look. With his hands laid on his knees,
he turned his gaze from face to face, until it
rested upon the scarred and sunburnt visage of
Bob Blazes, the Leader.

“I've heard your story about this nabob, as
you call him, and now I'd like to ask you a
question or two,” said Elijah.

“Fire away,” responded the Leader.

“Did this nabob once live in Walnut street
near — street?”

“He did,” answered Bob.

“Did he disappear four years ago, and was
his hat found on the wharf?”

“You're too hard for me 'Lije,” was the
answer of the Leader, “I can't answer that.
Take a little whiskey, and get some color in
your face. You look like a subject on a dissecting
table.”

“Was his name Jacob D. Z. Hicks?” said
Elijah fixing his eyes earnestly upon the
Leader, and grasping him rather roughly by
the arm.

Bob Blazes dropped the bottle on the floor.
He started up and shook the hand of the Discharged
Convict from his arm, exclaiming —
“Why 'Lije has the manny poker sure enough.
Thunder! What puts such ideas into his
head? What the devil do I know of your
Zebediah Hicks?”

With these words he resumed his seat, in
the midst of the band, who assailed Elijah
with a burst of laughter, mingled with curses.

“Drink somethin' 'Lije, and drive away the
horrors,” was the end of their chorus.

Nothing daunted, 'Lije turned his corpselike
face to the light, and regarding “Bob
Blazes” with the same fixed stare, said
slowly —

“Come captain, you need'nt shove me off
in that way. It rayther sharpens a man's
senses to spend four years in Cherry Hill, and
I'm jist possessed by the idea — I don't know
why, and I don't keer why — that your rich
nabob is nobody else than Hicks the Merchant,
who disappeared four years ago. Now, you
know me boys, (surveying the other Killers)
and you know that when my blood's up, I am
always thar. I am. So if you want me to
go into your muss, with the right sperrit, tomorrow
night, Bob must answer my question.
Yes or no! Is your nabob named Jacob D.
Z. Hicks?”

“Why do you ask?” said Bob, rather cowed—
at least surprised — by the earnest manner
of the Convict — “What have you got to do
with this Hicks?”

“Nothin' much. Only I was put to jail
for passin' a note on one of his Banks, which
note happened to be counterfeit. That's all.”

“Well,” said Bob, drawing a long puff from
a cigar, which he had lighted at the candle —
“If it's any satisfaction to you to know it, I
am induced to believe, that this nabob was
once named Jacob D. Z. Hicks”

A flush of red, shot into the cheeks of the
Convict. He said nothing, but quietly reached
for the bottle, and took a long and hearty
draught. After a pause, he said in a careless
why to Bob Blazes —

“Come Blazes, you've seen somethin' of
life and so have I. Suppose we tell somethin'
of our lives to the boys. You begin.”

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