you-knownor-wahritis-to-lose-'n-umbrella!"

Before they could decide in their weaker minds what the immediate
connection was, he had left them, at a sharp slant, in great
intellectual disturbance, and was passing out through the entry-way with
both his hands against the wall.

Early next morning, while young Mr. PENDRAGON was locked in his room,
startled and wretched, the inconsolable uncle of EDWIN DROOD was
energetically ransacking every part of Bumsteadville for the missing
man. House after house he visited, like some unholy inspector: peering
up chimneys, prodding under carpets, and staying a long time in cellars
where there was cider. Not a bit of paper or cloth blew along the
turnpike but he eagerly picked it up, searched in it with the most
anxious care, and finally placed it in his hat. Going to the Pond, with
a borrowed hatchet, he cut a bole in the thick ice, lost the hatchet,
and, after bathing his head in the water, declared that his alpaca
nephew was not there. Finding an antique flask in one of his pockets, he
gradually removed all the liquid contents therefrom with a tubular
straw, but still could discern no traces of EDWIN DROOD. All the
live-long day he prosecuted his researches, to the great discomposure of
the populace: and, with whitewash all over the back of his coat, and
very dingy hands, had just seated himself at his own fireside in the
evening, when Mr. DIBBLE came in.

"This is a strange disappearance," said Mr. DIBBLE.

"And it was good as new," groaned the organist, with but one eye open.

"Almost new!--_what_ was?"