BANG! WH-A-A-ACK! A shattering report split the air of the stable, and there was an orifice of remarkable diameter in the alley door. With these phenomena, three yells, expressing excitement of different kinds, were almost simultaneous--two from within the stable and the third from a point in the alley about eleven inches lower than the orifice just constructed in the planking of the door. This third point, roughly speaking, was the open mouth of a gayly dressed young coloured man whose attention, as he strolled, had been thus violently distracted from some mental computations he was making in numbers, including, particularly, those symbols at ecstasy or woe, as the case might be, seven and eleven. His eye at once perceived the orifice on a line enervatingly little above the top of his head; and, although he had not supposed himself so well known in this neighbourhood, he was aware that he did, here and there, possess acquaintances of whom some such uncomplimentary action might be expected as natural and characteristic. His immediate procedure was to prostrate himself flat upon the ground, against the stable doors. In so doing, his shoulders came brusquely in contact with one of them, which happened to be unfastened, and it swung open, revealing to his gaze two stark-white white boys, one of them holding an enormous pistol and both staring at him in stupor of ultimate horror. For, to the glassy eyes of Penrod and Sam, the stratagem of the young coloured man, thus dropping to earth, disclosed, with awful certainty, a slaughtered body. This dreadful thing raised itself upon its elbows and looked at them, and there followed a motionless moment--a tableau of brief duration, for both boys turned and would have fled, shrieking, but the body spoke: “'At's a nice business!” it said reproachfully. “Nice business! Tryin' blow a man's head off!” Penrod was unable to speak, but Sam managed to summon the tremulous semblance of a voice. “Where--where did it hit you?” he gasped. “Nemmine anything 'bout where it HIT me,” the young coloured man returned, dusting his breast and knees as he rose. “I want to know what kine o' white boys you think you is--man can't walk 'long street 'thout you blowin' his head off!” He entered the stable and, with an indignation surely justified, took the pistol from the limp, cold hand of Penrod. “Whose gun you playin' with? Where you git 'at gun?” “It's ours,” quavered Sam. “It belongs to us.”