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Rh seems to be connected in some mysterious manner with what is going on in the interior room. Numbers of men, mostly young, and dressed like mechanics or small shop-keepers, clerks, etc., enter the saloon as we stand drinking at the bar, and pass quietly inside. At length a man approaches the inner door, who is recognized by the man sitting in the chair as an objectionable or suspicious character, and the latter, with a quiet motion of the hand toward the outer door, says, "I don't think, sir, the man you are looking for is inside!" or, "This ain't the place for you, stranger; better walk the other way;" and we hear a noise inside as if a chain had been let down and something had been bolted, which is quite likely the case. The bluffed individual departs without a word, satisfied that there is nothing to be made by parleying, and we advance toward the door-keeper—for such he really is—in turn. He looks sharply at us, recognizes us by a quiet nod, and glances inquiringly toward the rest of the party. "Only strangers from New York going the rounds; no shenanegan or cops in disguise; honor bright!" we reply. "All right; go ahead!" and we enter the door, turn to the right, go down a flight of steps, through a narrow passage, and, following the gas-lights, reach and enter a third door; passing which we find ourselves in a wide, low hall, furnished with long tables covered with glazed cloth, lighted brilliantly with gas, and crowded with men who are gathering in groups around the different tables. The air is close and hot, and the smell none of the most agreeable. Perhaps two