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.”