"As well as could be expected; this morning, at Bumsteadville," said the
Gospeler, with answer as terse and comprehensive as the question.

"--Because," added the lawyer, quickly, "there he is, now, coming out of
a refreshment saloon immediately under the building in which our young
friend takes refuge."

"So he is!" exclaimed the surprised Mr. SIMPSON, staring through the
window.

There, indeed, as indicated, was the Ritualistic organist; apparently
eating cloves from the palm of his right hand as he emerged from the
place of refreshment, and wearing a linen coat so long and a straw hat
of such vast brim that his sex was not obvious at first glance. While
the two beholders gazed, in unspeakable fascination, Mr. BUMSTEAD
suddenly made a wild dart at a passing elderly man with a dark
sun-umbrella, ecstatically tore the latter from his grasp, and
passionately tapped him on the head with it. Then, before the astounded
elderly man could recover from his amazement, or regain the gold
spectacles which had been knocked from his nose, the umbrella, after an
instant of keen examination, was restored to him with a humble, almost
abjectly apologetic, air, and Mr. BUMSTEAD hurried back, evidently
crushed, into the refreshment saloon.

"His brain must be turned by the loss of his relative," murmured the
Gospeler, pitifully.

"His umbrellative, you mean," said Mr. DIBBLE.