The Alarm.

Immediately after the departure of Mr. Stevens, Master Kinch began to consider the propriety of closing the establishment for the night. Sliding down from the counter, where he had been seated, reflecting upon the strange conduct of his recent customer, he said, “I feels rather queer round about here,” laying his hand upon his stomach; “and I’m inclined to think that some of them ’ere Jersey sausages and buckwheat cakes that the old man has been stuffing himself with, wouldn’t go down slow. Rather shabby in him not to come back, and let me go home, and have a slap at the wittles. I expect nothing else, but that he has eat so much, that he’s fell asleep at the supper-table, and won’t wake up till bedtime. He’s always serving me that same trick.”

The old man thus alluded to was no other than Master Kinch’s father, who had departed from the shop two or three hours previously, promising to return immediately after tea.

This promise appeared to have entirely faded from his recollection, as he was at that moment, as Kinch had supposed, fast asleep, and totally oblivious of the fact that such a person as his hungry descendant was in existence.

Having fully come to the conclusion to suspend operations for the evening, Kinch made two or three excursions into the street, returning each time laden with old hats, coats, and shoes. These he deposited on the counter without order or arrangement, muttering, as he did so, that the old man could sort ’em out in the morning to suit himself. The things being all brought from the street, he had only to close the shutters, which operation was soon effected, and our hungry friend on his way home.

The next morning Mr. De Younge (for the father of Kinch rejoiced in that aristocratic cognomen) was early at his receptacle for old clothes, and it being market-day, he anticipated doing a good business. The old man leisurely took down the shutters, assorted and hung out the old clothes, and was busily engaged in sweeping out the store, when his eye fell upon the paper dropped by Mr. Stevens the evening previous.

“What’s dis ‘ere,” said he, stooping to pick it up; “bill or suthin’ like it, I s’pose. What a trial ‘tis not to be able to read writin’; don’t know whether ’tis worth keeping or not; best save it though till dat ar boy of mine comes, he can read it he’s a scholar. Ah, de children now-a-days has greater ’vantages than deir poor fathers had.”

Whilst he was thus soliloquizing, his attention was arrested by the noise of footsteps in the other part of the shop, and looking up, he discerned the tall form of Mr. Walters.

“Why, bless me,” said the old man, “dis is an early visit; where you come from, honey, dis time o’ day?”

“Oh, I take a walk every morning, to breathe a little of the fresh air; it gives one an appetite for breakfast, you know. You’ll let me take the liberty of sitting on your counter, won’t you?” he continued; “I want to read a little article in a newspaper I have just purchased.”

Assent being readily given, Mr. Walters was soon perusing the journal with great attention; at last he tossed it from him in an impatient manner, and exclaimed, “Of all lying rascals, I think the reporters for this paper are the greatest. Now, for instance, three or four nights since, a gang of villains assaulted one of my tenants a coloured man upon his own doorstep, and nearly killed him, and that, too, without the slightest provocation; they then set fire to the house, which was half consumed before it could be extinguished; and it is here stated that the coloured people were the aggressors, and whilst they were engaged in the melee, the house caught fire accidentally.” “Yes,” rejoined Mr. De Younge; “things are gitting mighty critical even in dese ’ere parts; and I wouldn’t live furder down town if you was to give me a house rent-free. Why, it’s raly dangerous to go home nights down dere.”

“And there is no knowing how long we may be any better off up here,” continued Mr. Walters; “the authorities don’t seem to take the least notice of them, and the rioters appear to be having it all their own way.”

They continued conversing upon the topic for some time, Mr. De Younge being meanwhile engaged in sponging and cleaning some coats he had purchased the day before; in so doing, he was obliged to remove the paper he had picked up from the floor, and it occurred to him to ask Mr. Walters to read it; he therefore handed it to him, saying

“Jist read dat, honey, won’t you? I want to know if it’s worth savin’. I’ve burnt up two or three receipts in my life, and had de bills to pay over; and I’se got rale careful, you know. ’Taint pleasant to pay money twice over for de same thing.”

Mr. Walters took the paper extended to him, and, after glancing over it, remarked, “This handwriting is very familiar to me, very; but whose it is, I can’t say; it appears to be a list of addresses, or something of that kind.” And he read over various names of streets, and numbers of houses. “Why,” he exclaimed, with a start of surprise, “here is my own house upon the list, 257, Easton-street; then here is 22, Christian-street; here also are numbers in Baker-street, Bedford-street, Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth Streets; in some of which houses I know coloured people live, for one or two of them are my own. This is a strange affair.”

As he spoke, he turned over the paper, and read on the other side, “Places to be attacked.” “Why, this looks serious,” he continued, with some excitement of manner. “’Places to be attacked,’ don’t that seem to you as if it might be a list of places for these rioters to set upon? I really must look into this. Who could have left it here?”

“I raly don’t know,” replied the old man. “Kinch told me suthin’ last night about some gemman comin’ here and changing his clothes; p’raps ’twas him. I’d like to know who ’twas myself. Well, wait awhile, my boy will come in directly; maybe he can explain it.”

He had scarcely finished speaking, when Master Kinch made his appearance, with his hat, as usual, placed upon nine hairs, and his mouth smeared with the eggs and bacon with which he had been “staying and comforting” himself. He took off his hat on perceiving Mr. Walters, and, with great humility, “hoped that gentleman was well.”

“Yes, very well, Kinch,” replied Mr. Walters. “We were waiting for you. Can you tell where this came from?” he asked, handing him the mysterious paper.

“Never seen it before, that I know of,” replied Kinch, after a short inspection.

“Well, who was here last night?” asked his father; “you said you sold suthin’?”

“So I did,” replied Kinch; “sold a whole suit; and the gentleman who put it on said he was going out for a lark. He was changing some papers from his pocket: perhaps he dropped it. I’m to take this suit back to him to-day. Here is his card.”

“By heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Walters, after looking at the card, “I know the fellow, George Stevens, ’Slippery George,’ every one knows him, and can speak no good of him either. Now I recognize the handwriting of the list; I begin to suspect something wrong by seeing his name in connection with this.”

Hereupon Kinch was subjected to a severe cross-examination, which had the effect of deepening Mr. Walters’s impression, that some plot was being concocted that would result to the detriment of the coloured people; for he was confident that no good could be indicated by the mysterious conduct of Mr. Stevens.

After some deliberation, Kinch received instructions to take home the clothes as directed, and to have his eyes about him; and if he saw or heard anything, he was to report it. In accordance with his instructions, Master Kinch made several journeys to Mr. Stevens’s office, but did not succeed in finding that gentleman within; the last trip he made there fatigued him to such a degree, that he determined to wait his arrival, as he judged, from the lateness of the hour, that, if it was his intention to come at all that day, he would soon be there.

“I’ll sit down here,” said Kinch, who espied an old box in the back part of the entry, “and give myself a little time to blow.”

He had not sat long before he heard footsteps on the stairs, and presently the sound of voices became quite audible.

“That’s him,” ejaculated Kinch, as Mr. Stevens was heard saying, in an angry tone, “Yes; and a devil of a scrape I got into by your want of sobriety. Had you followed my directions, and met me at Whitticar’s, instead of getting drunk as a beast, and being obliged to go home to bed, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Well, squire,” replied McCloskey, for he was the person addressed by Mr. Stevens, “a man can’t be expected always to keep sober.”

“He ought to when he has business before him,” rejoined Mr. Stevens, sharply; “how the devil am I to trust you to do anything of importance, when I can’t depend on your keeping sober a day at a time? Come up to this top landing,” continued he, “and listen to me, if you think you are sober enough to comprehend what I say to you.”

They now approached, and stood within a few feet of the place where Kinch was sitting, and Mr. Stevens said, with a great deal of emphasis, “Now, I want you to pay the strictest attention to what I say. I had a list of places made out for you last night, but, somehow or other, I lost it. But that is neither here nor there. This is what I want you to attend to particularly. Don’t attempt anything to-night; you can’t get a sufficient number of the boys together; but, when you do go, you are to take, first, Christian-street, between Eleventh and Twelfth, there are several nigger families living in that block. Smash in their windows, break their furniture, and, if possible, set one of the houses on fire, and that will draw attention to that locality whilst you are operating elsewhere. By that time, the boys will be ripe for anything. Then you had better go to a house in Easton-street, corner of Shotwell: there is a rich nigger living there whose plunder is worth something. I owe him an old grudge, and I want you to pay it off for me.”

“You keep me pretty busy paying your debts. What’s the name of this rich nigger?”

“Walters,” replied Mr. Stevens; “everybody knows him. Now about that other affair.” Here he whispered so low, that Kinch could only learn they were planning an attack on the house of some one, but failed in discovering the name. McCloskey departed as soon as he had received full directions from Mr. Stevens, and his retreating steps might be still heard upon the stairs, when Mr. Stevens unlocked his office-door and entered.

After giving him sufficient time to get quietly seated, Kinch followed, and delivered the clothes left with him the evening previous. He was very much struck with Mr. Stevens’s altered appearance, and, in fact, would not have recognized him, but for his voice.

“You don’t seem to be well?” remarked Kinch, inquiringly.

“No, I’m not,” he replied, gruffly; “I’ve caught cold.” As Kinch was leaving the office, he called after him, “Did you find a paper in your shop this morning?”

“No, sir,” replied Kinch, “I didn’t;” but mentally he observed, “My daddy did though;” and, fearful of some other troublesome question, he took leave immediately.

Fatigued and out of breath, Kinch arrived at the house of Mr. Walters, where he considered it best to go and communicate what he had learned.

Mr. Walters was at dinner when he received from the maid a summons to the parlour to see a lad, who said his business was a matter “of life or death.” He was obliged to smile at the air of importance with which Kinch commenced the relation of what he had overheard but the smile gave place to a look of anxiety and indignation long ere he had finished, and at the conclusion of the communication he was highly excited and alarmed.

“The infernal scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Walters. “Are you sure it was my house?”

“Yes, sure,” was Kinch’s reply. “You are the only coloured person living in the square and he said plain enough for anybody to understand, ‘Easton-street, corner of Shotwell.’ I heard every word but what they said towards the last in a whisper.”

“You couldn’t catch anything of it?” asked Mr. Walters.

“No, I missed that; they talked too low for me to hear.”

After reflecting a few moments, Mr. Walters said: “Not a word of this is to be lisped anywhere except with my permission, and by my direction. Have you had your dinner?”

“No, sir,” was the prompt reply.

“I want to despatch a note to Mr. Ellis, by you, if it won’t trouble you too much. Can you oblige me?”

“Oh, yes, sir, by all means,” replied Kinch, “I’ll go there with pleasure.”

“Then whilst I’m writing,” continued Mr. Walters, “you can be eating your dinner, that will economize time, you know.”

Kinch followed the servant who answered the bell into the dining-room which Mr. Walters had just left. On being supplied with a knife and fork, he helped himself bountifully to the roast duck, then pouring out a glass of wine, he drank with great enthusiasm, to “our honoured self,” which proceeding caused infinite amusement to the two servants who were peeping at him through the dining-room door. “Der-licious,” exclaimed Kinch, depositing his glass upon the table; “guess I’ll try another;” and suiting the action to the word, he refilled his glass, and dispatched its contents in the wake of the other. Having laboured upon the duck until his appetite was somewhat appeased, he leant back in his chair and suffered his plate to be changed for another, which being done, he made an attack upon a peach pie, and nearly demolished it outright.

This last performance brought his meal to a conclusion, and with a look of weariness, he remarked, “I don’t see how it is but as soon as I have eat for a little while my appetite is sure to leave me now I can’t eat a bit more. But the worst thing is walking down to Mr. Ellis’s. I don’t feel a bit like it, but I suppose I must;” and reluctantly rising from the table, he returned to the parlour, where he found Mr. Walters folding the note he had promised to deliver.

As soon as he had despatched Kinch on his errand, Mr. Walters put on his hat and walked to the office of the mayor.

“Is his honour in?” he asked of one of the police, who was lounging in the anteroom.

“Yes, he is what do you want with him?” asked the official, in a rude tone.

“That, sir, is none of your business,” replied Mr. Walters; “if the mayor is in, hand him this card, and say I wish to see him.”

Somewhat awed by Mr. Walters’s dignified and decided manner, the man went quickly to deliver his message, and returned with an answer that his honour would be obliged to Mr. Walters if he would step into his office.

On following the officer, he was ushered into a small room the private office of the chief magistrate of the city.

“Take a seat, sir,” said the mayor, politely, “it is some time since we have met. I think I had the pleasure of transacting business with you quite frequently some years back if I am not mistaken.”

“You are quite correct,” replied Mr. Walters, “and being so favourably impressed by your courtesy on the occasions to which you refer, I have ventured to intrude upon you with a matter of great importance, not only to myself, but I think I may say to the public generally. Since this morning, circumstances have come under my notice that leave no doubt on my mind that a thoroughly-concerted plan is afoot for the destruction of the property of a large number of our coloured citizens mine amongst the rest. You must be aware,” he continued, “that many very serious disturbances have occurred lately in the lower part of the city.”

“Yes, I’ve heard something respecting it,” replied the mayor, “but I believe they were nothing more than trifling combats between the negroes and the whites in that vicinity.”

“Oh, no, sir! I assure you,” rejoined Mr. Walters, “they were and are anything but trifling. I regard them, however, as only faint indications of what we may expect if the thing is not promptly suppressed; there is an organized gang of villains, who are combined for the sole purpose of mobbing us coloured citizens; and, as we are inoffensive, we certainly deserve protection; and here,” continued Mr. Walters, “is a copy of the list of places upon which it is rumoured an attack is to be made.”

“I really don’t see how I’m to prevent it, Mr. Walters; with the exception of your own residence, all that are here enumerated are out of my jurisdiction. I can send two or three police for your protection if you think it necessary. But I really can’t see my way clear to do anything further.”

“Two or three police!” said Mr. Walters, with rising indignation at the apathy and indifference the mayor exhibited; “they would scarcely be of any more use than as many women. If that is the extent of the aid you can afford me, I must do what I can to protect myself.”

“I trust your fears lead you to exaggerate the danger,” said the mayor, as Mr. Walters arose to depart; “perhaps it is only rumour after all.”

“I might have flattered myself with the same idea, did I not feel convinced by what has so recently occurred but a short distance from my own house; at any rate, if I am attacked, they will find I am not unprepared. Good day,” and bowing courteously to the mayor, Mr. Walters departed.