"He is my clerk," explains Mr. DIBBLE.

Whereupon Mr. TRACEY CLEWS dexterously whips off his brush of red hair,
and stands revealed as Mr. BLADAMS.

Merely waiting to granulate one more clove, Mr. BUMSTEAD settles the
rope about his neck anew, squints around under the wet towel in a
curiously ghastly manner, and thus addresses the meeting:--

"Ladies and gen'l'men--I've listened to y'r impudence with patience, and
on any other 'casion would be happy to see y'all safe home. At present,
however, Mr. BENTHAM and I desire to be left alone, if 'ts all th' same
t' you. You can come for the bodies in th' morning."

"BENTHAM! BENTHAM!" calls the Gospeler, "I can't see you acting in that
way, old friend. Come home with me to-night, and we'll talk of starting
a Religious Weekly together. That's your only successful American Comic
Paper."

"By Jove! so it is!" bawls JEREMY BENTHAM, like one possessed. "I never
thought of that before! I'm with you, my boy." And, hastily slipping the
rope from his neck, he hurries to his friend's side.

"And you, Uncle JACK--look at this!" exclaims Mr. E. DROOD, bringing
from behind his back and presenting to the melancholy organist a thing
that looks, at first glance, like an incredibly slim little black girl,
headless, with no waist at all, and balanced on one leg.

Mr. BUMSTEAD reaches for it mechanically; a look of intelligence comes
into his glassy eyes; then they fairly flame.