It is in William Street that the reader comes across the lithe figure of Planter Paul Jones. That restless tobacco grower, with his two aquatic slaves, Scipio and Cato, in the little sloop, has been knocking about the eastern shore for ducks. A sudden change of plan now brings him to New York, with a final purpose of extending his voyage as far as Boston. Planter Paul Jones is in a mood to know the Yankees better, and come by some guess of his own as to how soon our Puritan bulldogs may be expected to fly at the English throat. As he goes briskly northward along William Street, even through his landsman’s garb there shows much that is marine. Also, he evinces a sailor’s contempt for the dripping weather, plowing ahead through shine and through shower as though in the catalogue of the disagreeable there is no such word as a wetting. At the corner of John Street, Planter Paul Jones comes upon a lean, prim personage. By his severe air the latter gentleman is evidently an individual of consequence. The severe gentleman, with a prudent care for his coat in direct contrast to the weather-carelessness of the other, has taken refuge in the safe harborage of a doorway. From the dry vantage thereof he cranes his neck in a tentative way, the better to survey the heavens. Plainly he desires a guarantee, in favor of some partial space of sunshine, before he again ventures abroad. As Planter Paul Jones comes up, both he and the severe gentleman gaze at each other for one moment. Then their hands are caught in a warm exchange of greetings: “Mr. Livingston, by my word!” cries Planter Paul Jones, shaking the severe gentleman’s hand. “Paul Jones!” exclaims the severe gentleman, returning the handshake, but with due regard to the pompous. “Now this is what I term fortunate!” says Planter Paul Jones, releasing the other’s fingers. “I was on my way to your house to ask for letters of introduction to Mr. Hancock and others in Boston.” “Boston! Surely you have heard the news?” “News? I’ve heard nothing. For six weeks I’ve been anywhere between Barnegat and the inner Chesapeake in my sloop. I tied up at the foot of Whitehall Street within the hour, and you’re the first I’ve spoken with since I stepped ashore. What is this news that makes you stare at the name of Boston?” “And you’ve not heard!” repeats Mr. Livingston. Then, with a look at once somber and solemn: “Black news! Black news, indeed! I’m on my way to Hanover Square to have it set in types, and scattered up and down the town. Come; you shall go with me. I’ll talk as we walk along.” Mr. Livingston takes Planter Paul Jones by the arm. “Black news!” he resumes. “The Massachusetts men have attacked the British at Lexington and Concord; my despatches, while necessarily meager, declare that the British were disgracefully beaten, and lost, killed and wounded, several hundred soldiers.”