“And how does our young friend enjoy himself, Mr. Simpson, in the retreat which I had the honor of commending to you for him?”

The visitor replied, that his young friend’s retreat, by its very loftiness, was calculated to inspire any occupant with a room-attic affection.

“And how, and when, and where did you leave Mr. Bumstead?” inquired Mr. Dibble.

“As well as could be expected; this morning, at Bumsteadville,” said the Gospeler, with answer as terse and comprehensive as the question.

“—­Because,” added the lawyer, quickly, “there he is, now, coming out of a refreshment saloon immediately under the building in which our young friend takes refuge.”

“So he is!” exclaimed the surprised Mr. Simpson, staring through the window.

There, indeed, as indicated, was the Ritualistic organist; apparently eating cloves from the palm of his right hand as he emerged from the place of refreshment, and wearing a linen coat so long and a straw hat of such vast brim that his sex was not obvious at first glance.  While the two beholders gazed, in unspeakable fascination, Mr. Bumstead suddenly made a wild dart at a passing elderly man with a dark sun-umbrella, ecstatically tore the latter from his grasp, and passionately tapped him on the head with it.  Then, before the astounded elderly man could recover from his amazement, or regain the gold spectacles which had been knocked from his nose, the umbrella, after an instant of keen examination, was restored to him with a humble, almost abjectly apologetic, air, and Mr. Bumstead hurried back, evidently crushed, into the refreshment saloon.

“His brain must be turned by the loss of his relative,” murmured the Gospeler, pitifully.

“His umbrellative, you mean,” said Mr. Dibble.

When these two gentlemen had parted, and the Reverend OCTAVIUS Simpson had been escorted to the ferry, as promised, by Montgomery pendragon, the latter, after a long, insane walk about the city, with the thermometer at 98 degrees, returned to his attic in time to surprise a stranger climbing in through one of the back windows.

“Who are you?” exclaimed the Southern youth, much struck by the funereal aspect, sexton-like dress, and inordinately long countenance of the pallid, light-haired intruder.

“Pardon! pardon!” answered he at the window, with much solemnity.  “I am a proprietor of the Comic Paper down below, and am eluding the man who comes every day to tell me how such a paper should be conducted.  He is now talking to the young man writing the mail-wrappers, who, being of iron constitution and unmarried, can bear more than I. There was just time for me to glide out of the window at sound of that fearful voice, and I climbed the iron shutter and found myself at your casement.—­Hark!  Do you hear the buzz down there?  He’s now telling the young man writing the mail-wrappers what kind of Cartoons should be got-up for this country.—­Hark, again! and the young man writing the mail-wrappers have clinched and are rolling about the floor.—­Hark, once more!  The young man writing the mail-wrappers has put him out.”