The Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON makes him unclose his clenched fist, in
which there appears to be one or two cloves, and then says: "I am
shocked to hear this, Mr. PENDRAGON. As you have no political influence,
and have never shot a _Tribune_ man, neither New York law nor society
would allow you to commit murder with impunity. I regret, too, to see
that you have been drinking, and would advise you to try a chapter from
one of Professor DE MILLE'S novels, as a mild emetic, before retiring.
After that, two or three sentences from one of Mr. RICHARD GRANT WHITE'S
essays--will ensure sleep to you for the remainder of the night."

Returning the unspeakably thankful pressure of the grateful young man's
hand, the Gospeler goes thoughtfully down stairs, where he is just in
time to answer the excited ring of Mr. BUMSTEAD.

"Dear me, Mr. BUMSTEAD!" is his first exclamation, "what's that you've
got on your head?"

"Perspiration, sir," cries BUMSTEAD, who, in his agitation, is still
ringing the bell. "We've nearly had a murder to-night, and I've come
around to offer you my umbrella for your own protection."

"Umbrella!" echoes Mr. SIMPSON, "why, really, I don't see how--"

"Open it on him suddenly when he makes a pass at you," interrupts Mr.
BUMSTEAD, thrusting the alpaca weapon upon him. "I'll send for it in the
morning."

The Gospeler stands confounded in his own doorway, with the defence thus
strangely secured in his hand; and, looking up the moon-lighted road,
sees Mr. BUMSTEAD, in the sun-bonnet, leaping high, at short intervals,