"Who's there?" comes from the darkness.

"JEREMY BENTHAM, late proprietor of first-class American Comic
Paper.--Died of Comic Serial.--Want to hang myself," is the jerky reply
from the other side.

"Got your own rope, sir?"

"No. One fell down on my shoulders just as I was wishing for it; but it
seems to be too elastic."

"That's the other end 'f _my_ rope, air," rejoins the second voice, as
in wrath. "I threw't over the branches and thought it had caught,
instead of that it let me down, sir."

"And drew me up," says Mr. BENTHAM.

Before another word can be spoken by either, the light of a dark-lantern
is flashed upon them. There is Mr. BUMSTEAD, not three yards from Mr.
BENTHAM; each with an end of the same rope about his neck, and the head
of the former turbaned with a damp towel.

"Are ye men?" exclaims the deep voice of Mr. MELANCTHON SCHENCK from
behind the lantern, "and would ye madly incur death before having taken
out life-policies in the Boreal?"

"And would my uncle celebrate my return in this style?" cried still
another voice from the darkness.

"Who's that spoke just then?" cries the Ritualistic organist.