Benignant Mr. DIBBLE sat near a front window of his office, and received
the visitor with legal serenity.

"And how does our young friend enjoy himself, Mr. SIMPSON, in the
retreat which I had the honor of commending to you for him?"

The visitor replied, that his young friend's retreat, by its very
loftiness, was calculated to inspire any occupant with a room-attic
affection.

"And how, and when, and where did you leave Mr. BUMSTEAD?" inquired Mr.
DIBBLE.

"As well as could be expected; this morning, at Bumsteadville," said the
Gospeler, with answer as terse and comprehensive as the question.

"--Because," added the lawyer, quickly, "there he is, now, coming out of
a refreshment saloon immediately under the building in which our young
friend takes refuge."

"So he is!" exclaimed the surprised Mr. SIMPSON, staring through the
window.

There, indeed, as indicated, was the Ritualistic organist; apparently
eating cloves from the palm of his right hand as he emerged from the
place of refreshment, and wearing a linen coat so long and a straw hat
of such vast brim that his sex was not obvious at first glance. While
the two beholders gazed, in unspeakable fascination, Mr. BUMSTEAD
suddenly made a wild dart at a passing elderly man with a dark
sun-umbrella, ecstatically tore the latter from his grasp, and
passionately tapped him on the head with it. Then, before the astounded
elderly man could recover from his amazement, or regain the gold
spectacles which had been knocked from his nose, the umbrella, after an
instant of keen examination, was restored to him with a humble, almost
abjectly apologetic, air, and Mr. BUMSTEAD hurried back, evidently
crushed, into the refreshment saloon.

"His brain must be turned by the loss of his relative," murmured the
Gospeler, pitifully.

"His umbrellative, you mean," said Mr. DIBBLE.

When these two gentlemen had parted, and the Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON
had been escorted to the ferry, as promised, by MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON,
the latter, after a long, insane walk about the city, with the
thermometer at 98 degrees, returned to his attic in time to surprise a
stranger climbing in through one of the back windows.

"Who are you?" exclaimed the Southern youth, much struck by the funereal
aspect, sexton-like dress, and inordinately long countenance of the
pallid, light-haired intruder.

"Pardon! pardon!" answered he at the window, with much solemnity. "I am
a proprietor of the Comic Pa