lantern before him by a cord passing about his neck, and, with his
umbrella under his arm, goes softly down stairs and out of the house.

Repairing to the marble-yard and home of OLD MORTARITY, which are on the
outskirts of Bumsteadville, he wanders through mortar-heaps, monuments
brought for repair, and piles of bricks, toward a whitewashed residence
of small demensions with a light at the window.

"JOHN McLAUGHLIN, ahoy!"

In response, the master of the mansion promptly opens the door, and it
is then perceptible that his basement, parlor, spare-bedroom and attic
are all on one floor, and that a couple of pigs are spending the season
with him. Showing his visitor into this ingeniously condensed
establishment, he induces the pigs to retire to a corner, and then dons
his hat.

"Are you ready, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN?"

"Please the pigs, I am, Mr. BUMSTEAD," answers MCLAUGHLIN, taking down
from a hook a lantern, which, like his companion's, he hangs from his
neck by a cord. "My spirits is equal to any number of ghosts to-night,
sir, if we meet 'em."

"Spirits!" ejaculates the Ritualistic organist, shifting his umbrella
for a moment while he hurriedly draws the antique bottle from his
pocket. "You're nervous to-night, J. MCLAUGHLIN, and need a little of
the venerable JAMES AKER'S West Indian Restorative.--I'll try it first
to make sure that I haven't mistaken the phial."