“The peculiarities you notice,” returned the gentleman, “may either exist solely in your own imagination, or they may be the result of my own ill-health.  My name is Tracey CLEWS, and I desire to spend a few weeks in the country for physical recuperation.  Have you any idea where a dead-beat,[1] like myself, could find inexpensive lodgings in Bumsteadville?”

The host hastily remarked, that his own bill for those pork and beans was fifty cents; and upon being paid, coldly added that a Mrs. Smythe, wife of the sexton of Saint Cow’s Ritualistic Church, took hash-eaters for the summer.  As the gentleman preferred a high-church private boarding-house to an unsectarian first class hotel, all he had to do was to go out on the road again, and keep inquiring until he found the place.

Donning his Panama hat, and carrying a stout cane, Mr. CLEWS was quickly upon the turnpike; and, his course taking him near the pauper burial-ground, he presently perceived an extremely disagreeable child throwing stones at pigeons in a field, and generally hitting the beholder.

“You young Alderman! what do you mean?” he exclaimed, with marked feeling, rubbing the place on his knee which had just been struck.

“Then just give me a five-cent stamp to aim at yer, and yer won’t ketch it onc’t,” replied the boyish trifler.  “I couldn’t hit what I was to fire at if it was my own daddy.”

“Here are ten cents, then,” said the gentleman, wildly dodging the last shot at a distant pigeon, “and now show me where Mrs. Smythe lives.

“All right, old brick-top,” assented the merry sprite, with a vivacious dash of personality.  “D’yer see that house as yer skoot past the Church and round the corner?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s SMYTHE’S, and Bumstead lives there, too—­him as is always tryin’ to put a head on me.  I’ll play my points on him yet, though. I’ll play my points!” And the rather vulgar young chronic absentee from Sunday-school retired to a proper distance, and from thence began stoning his benefactor to the latter’s perfect safety.

Reaching the boarding-house of Mrs. Smythe, as directed, Mr. Tracey CLEWS soon learned from the lady that he could have a room next to the apartment of Mr. Bumstead, to whom he was referred for further recommendation of the establishment.  Though that broken-hearted gentleman was mourning the loss of a beloved umbrella, accompanied by a nephew, and having a bone handle, Mrs. Smythe was sure he would speak a good word for her house.  Perhaps Mr. CLEWS had heard of his loss?

Mr. CLEWS could not exactly recall that particular case; but had a confused recollection of having lost several umbrellas himself, at various times, and had no doubt that the addition of a nephew must make such a loss still heavier.

Mr. Bumstead being in his room when the introduction took place, and having Judge Sweeney for company over a bowl of lemon tea, the new boarder lifted his hat politely to both dignitaries, and involuntarily smacked his lips at the mixture they were taking for their coughs.