Looking very carefully along the still extended skirt of his coat
towards exactly the point of the compass from which the voice seemed to
come, Mr. BUMSTEAD at last awoke to the conviction that the tension of
his garment and its breezy agitation were caused by the tugging of a
human figure.

"Do I intrude?" repeated Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, dropping the skirt as he
spoke. "Have I presumed too greatly in coming to request the favor of a
short private interview?"

Slipping quickly into a more genteel but rather rigid position on his
chair, the Ritualistic organist made an airy pass at him with the
accordion.

"Any doors where youwasborn, sir?"

"There were, Mr. BUMSTEAD."

"People ever knock when th' wanted t'-come-in, sir?"

"Why, I did knock at your door," answered Mr. CLEWS, conciliatingly. "I
knocked and knocked, but you kept on playing; and after I finally took
the liberty to come in and pull you by the coat, it was ten minutes
before you found it out."

In an attempt to look into the speaker's inmost soul, Mr. BUMSTEAD fell
into a doze, from which the crash of his accordion to the floor aroused
him in time to behold a very curious proceeding on the part of Mr.
CLEWS. That gentleman successively peered up the chimney, through the
windows, and under the furniture of the room, and then stealthily took a