seat near his rather languid observer.

"Mr. BUMSTEAD, you know me as a temporary boarder under the same roof
with you. Other people know me merely as a dead-beat. May I trust you
with a secret?"

A pair of blurred and glassy eyes looked into his from under a huge
straw hat, and a husky question followed his:

"Did y' ever read WORDSWORTH'S poem-'f-th' Excursion, sir?"

"Not that I remember."

"Then, sir," exclaimed the organist, with spasmodic animation--"then's
not in your hicsperience to know howssleepy-I am-jus'-now."

"You had a nephew," said his subtle companion, raising his voice, and
not appearing to heed the last remark.

"An' 'numbrella," added Mr. BUMSTEAD, feebly.

"I say you had a nephew," reiterated the other, "and that nephew
disappeared in a very mysterious manner. Now I'm a literary man--"

"C'd tell that by y'r-headerhair," murmured the Ritualistic organist.
Left y'r wife yet, sir?"

"I say I'm a literary man," persisted TRACEY CLEWS, sharply. "I'm going
to write a great American Novel, called 'The Amateur Detective,' founded
upon the story of this very EDWIN DROOD, and have come to Bumsteadville