A few weeks subsequent to the events we have just written, we find Mr. Stevens seated in his dingy office in company with the McCloskey, who had recently been discharged from custody in default of sufficient evidence being found to warrant his committal for trial.  He was sitting with his feet upon the stove, and was smoking a cigar in the most free-and-easy manner imaginable.

“So far, so good,” said Mr. Stevens, as he laid down the letter he was perusing; “that simplifies the matter greatly; and whatever is to be done towards his removal, must be done quickly—­now that the old man is dead there is but one to deal with.”

During the interval that had elapsed between the interview of Mr. Stevens with Whitticar and the period to which we now refer, Mr. Stevens had been actively engaged in promoting his riot scheme; and already several disturbances had occurred, in which a number of inoffensive coloured people had been injured in their persons and property.

But this was only a faint indication of what was to follow; and as he had, through the agency of Mr. Morton and others, been able to prevent any but the most garbled statements of these affairs from getting abroad, there was but little danger of their operations being interfered with.  Leading articles daily appeared in the public journals (particularly those that circulated amongst the lowest classes), in which the negroes were denounced, in the strongest terms.  It was averred that their insolence, since the commencement of the abolition agitation, had become unbearable; and from many quarters was suggested the absolute necessity for inflicting some general chastisement, to convince them that they were still negroes, and to teach them to remain in their proper place in the body politic.

Many of these articles were written by Mr. Stevens, and their insertion as editorials procured through the instrumentality of Mr. Morton and his friends.

Mr. Stevens turned to his visitor, and inquired, “What was done last night—­much of anything?”

“A great deal, yer honour,” replied McCloskey; “a nagur or two half killed, and one house set on fire and nearly burned up.”

“Is that all?” said Mr. Stevens, with a well-assumed look of disappointment.  “Is that all?  Why, you are a miserable set:  you should have beaten every darky out of the district by this time.”

“They’re not so aisily bate out—­they fight like sevin divils.  One o’ ’em, night before last, split Mikey Dolan’s head clane open, and it’s a small chance of his life he’s got to comfort himself wid.”

“Chances of war—­chances of war!” rejoined Mr. Stevens,—­“mere trifles when you get used to ’em:  you mustn’t let that stop you—­you have a great deal yet to do.  What you have already accomplished is a very small matter compared with what is expected, and what I intend you to do:  your work has only just begun, man.”

“Jist begun!” replied the astonished McCloskey; “haven’t we bin raising the very divil every night for the last week—­running a near chance of being kilt all the time—­and all for nothing!  It’s gettin’ tiresome; one don’t like to be fighting the nagurs all the time for the mere fun of the thing—­it don’t pay, for divil a cent have I got for all my trouble; and ye said ye would pay well, ye remimber.”