"Yes, gentlemen," return the MCLAUGHLINS, with yawns.

They ascend silently from the cellar, each believing that he is
accompanied by two companions, and rendered moodily distrustful thereby.

"Aina maina mona--Mike.
Bassalone, bona--Strike!"

sings a small, familiar voice, when they stand again above ground, and a
stone whizzes between their heads.

In another moment BUMSTEAD has the fell SMALLEY by the collar, and is
shaking him like a yard of carpet.

"You wretched little tarrier!" he cries in a fury, "you've been spying
around to-night, to find out something about my Spiritualism that may be
distorted to injure my Ritualistic standing."

"I ain't done nothing; and you jest drop me, or I'll knock spots out of
yer!" carols the stony young child. "I jest come to have my aim at that
old Beat there."

"Attend to his case, then--his and his friend's, for he seems to have
some one with him--and never let me see you two boys again."

Thus Mr. BUMSTEAD, as he releases the excited lad, and turns from the
pauper burial-ground for a curious kind of pitching and running walk
homeward. The strange expedition is at an end:-but _which_ end he is
unable just then to decide.