straw sticking out fiercely from his ear, privately offers to see Father
DEAN home if he feels at all dizzy; and, being courteously refused,
retires down the turnpike toward his own lodgings with military
precision of step.

When night falls upon the earth like a drop of ink upon the word Sun,
and the stars glitter like the points of so many poised gold pens all
ready to write the softer word Moon above the blot, the organist of St.
Cow's sits in his own room, where his fire keeps-up a kind of aspenish
twilight, and executes upon his accordeon a series of wild and mutilated
airs. The moistened towel which he often wears when at home is turbaned
upon his head, causing him to present a somewhat Turkish appearance; and
as, when turning a particularly complicated corner in an air, it is his
artistic habit to hold his tongue between his teeth, twist his head in
sympathy with the elaborate fingering, and involuntarily lift one foot
higher and higher from the floor as some skittish note frantically
dodges to evade him, his general musical aspect at his own hearth is
that of a partially Oriental gentleman, agonizingly laboring to cast
from him some furious animal full of strange sounds. Thus engaging in
desperate single combat with what, for making a ferocious fight before
any recognizable tune can he rescued from it, is, perhaps, the most
exhausting instrument known to evening amateurs and maddened
neighborhoods, Mr. BUMSTEAD passes three athletic hours. At the end of
that time, after repeatedly tripping-up its exasperated organist over
wrong keys in the last bar, the accordeon finally relinquishes the
concluding note with a dismal whine of despair, and retires in complete
collapse to its customary place of waiting. Then the conquering
performer changes his towel for a hat which would look better if it had
not been so often worn in bed, places an antique black bottle in one
pocket of his coat and a few cloves in the other; hangs an unlighted