But the paper was only part of Douglass’ work. One whole winter he lectured evenings at Corinthian Hall. Other seasons he would take an evening train to Victor, Farmington, Canandaigua, Geneva, Waterloo, Buffalo, Syracuse or elsewhere. He would speak in some hall or church, returning home the same night. In the morning Martin Delaney would find him at his desk, writing or mailing papers. Sleep in his house was an irregular business. At any hour of the day or night Underground “passengers” arrived. They came sometimes in carriages, with Quaker capes thrown about their shoulders; or they came under loads of wheat or lumber or sacks of flour. Some of them rode in boldly on the train, and more than once a packing-box arrived, marked _Open with Care_. Every agent of the Underground Railroad risked fine and imprisonment. They realized they were bailing out the ocean with a teaspoon, yet the joy of freeing one more slave was recompense enough. One time Douglass had eleven fugitives under his roof. And there they had to remain until Douglass could collect enough money to send them on to Canada. His wife cooked numerous pots of food which quickly vanished. “Passengers” slept in the attic and barn loft. Many people in Rochester became involved. One evening after dark a well-dressed, middle-aged man knocked at Douglass’ door and introduced himself as the law partner of the United States commissioner of that city. He would not sit down. “I have come to tell you,” he said, “that an hour ago the owner of three slaves who have escaped from Maryland was in our office. He says he has traced them to Rochester. He has papers for their arrest, and he is coming to your house!” Douglass stared at the man in amazement. He had recognized his name as that of a distinguished Democrat, perhaps the last person in Rochester from whom he would have expected assistance. He tried to say something, but the gentleman waved him aside. “I bid you good evening, Mr. Douglass. There is not a moment to lose!” And he disappeared down Alexander Street. One of the fugitives was at that moment in the hayloft, the other two were on the farm of Asa Anthony, just outside the city limits. That night two black horses rode swiftly through the night. Then Asa Anthony’s farm wagon rumbled down to the docks, and in the morning the three young men were on the free waves of Lake Ontario, bound for Canada.