After having thrown all his Ritualistic friends at home into a most
unholy and exasperated condition of mind, by a steady series of vague
remarks as to the extreme likelihood of their united implication in the
possible deed of darkness by which he has lost a broadcloth nephew and
an alpaca umbrella, the mournful Mr. BUMSTEAD is once more awaiting the
dawn in that popular retreat in Mulberry Street where he first
contracted his taste for cloves. The Assistant-Assessor and the Alderman
of the Ward are again there, tilted back against the wall in their
chairs; their shares in the Congressional Nominating Convention held in
that room earlier in the night having left them too weary for further
locomotion. The decanters and tumblers hurled by the Nominating
Convention over the question of which Irishman could drink the most to
be nominated, are still scattered about the floor; here and there a
forgotten slungshot marks the places where rival delegations have
confidently presented their claims for recognition; and a few
bullet-holes in the wall above the bar enumerate the various pauses in
the great debate upon the perils of the public peace from Negro
Suffrage.

Reclining with great ease of attitude upon an uncushioned settee, the
Ritualistic organist is aroused from dreamy slumber by the turning-over
of the pipe in his mouth, and majestically motions for the venerable
woman of the house to come and brush the ashes from his clothes.

"Wud yez have it filled again, honey?" asks the woman. "Sure, wan pipe
more would do ye no harrum."

"I'mtooshleepy," he says, dropping the pipe.

"An' are yez too shlapey, asthore, to talk a little bissiness wid an