BUMSTEAD sat gynmastically crosswise in an easy-chair, over an arm of
which his slender lower limbs limply dangled, and elaborately performed
one of the grander works of BACH upon an irritable accordion. Now,
winking with intense rapidity, and going through the muscular motions of
an excitable person resolutely pulling out an obstinate and inexplicable
drawer from somewhere about his knees, he produced sustained and
mournful notes, as of canine distress in the backyard; anon, with eyes
nearly closed and the straw nimbus sliding still further back, his
manipulation was that of an excessively weary gentleman slowly
compressing a large sponge, thereby squeezing out certain choking,
snorting, guttural sounds, as of a class softly studying the German
language in another room; and, finally, with an impatient start from the
unexpected slumber into which the last shaky _pianissimo_ had
momentarily betrayed him, he caught the untamed instrument in mid-air,
just as it was treacherously getting away from him, frantically balanced
it there for an instant on all his clutching finger-tips, and had it
prisoner again for a renewal of the weird symphony.

Seriously offended at the discovery that he could not drop asleep in his
own room, for a minute, without the music stopping and the accordion
trying to slip off, the Ritualistic organist was not at all softened in
temper by almost simultaneously realizing that the farther skirt of his
long linen coat was standing out nearly straight from his person, and,
apparently, fluttering in a heavy draught.

"Who's-been-ope'nin'-th'-window?" he sternly asked,
"What's-meaning-'f-such-a-gale-at thistime-'f-year?"

"Do I intrude?" inquired a voice close at hand.