He rests the elongated orifice of the diaphanous flask upon his lips for
a brief interval of critical inspection, and then applies it
thoughtfully to the mouth of OLD MORTARITY.

"Some more! Some more!" pleads the aged MCLAUGHLIN, when the Jamaican
nervine is abruptly jerked from his lips.

"Silence! Com on," is the stern response of the other, who, as he moves
from the house, and restores the crystal antiquity to its proper pocket,
eats a few cloves by stealth. His manner plainly shows that he is
offended at the quantity the old man has managed to swallow already.

Strange indeed is the ghastly expedition to the place of skulls, upon
which these two go thus by night. Not strange, perhaps, for Mr.
MCLAUGHLIN, whose very youth in New York, where he was an active
politician, found him a frequent nightly familiar of the Tombs; but
strange for the organist, who, although often grave in his manner,
sepulchral in his tones, and occasionally addicted to coughin', must be
curiously eccentric to wish to pass into concert that evening with the
dead heads.

Transfixed by his umbrella, which makes him look like a walking cross
between a pair of boots and a hat, Mr. BUMSTEAD leads the way athwart
the turnpike and several fields, until they have arrived at a low wall
skirting the foot of Gospeler's Gulch. Here they catch sight of the
Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON and MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON walking together,
near the former's house, in the moonlight, and, instantaneously, Mr.
BUMSTEAD opens his umbrella over the head of OLD MORTARITY, and drags
him down beside himself under it behind the wall.