"Mr. BUMSTEAD, you know me as a temporary boarder under the same roof
with you. Other people know me merely as a dead-beat. May I trust you
with a secret?"
A pair of blurred and glassy eyes looked into his from under a huge
straw hat, and a husky question followed his:
"Did y' ever read WORDSWORTH'S poem-'f-th' Excursion, sir?"
"Not that I remember."
"Then, sir," exclaimed the organist, with spasmodic animation--"then's
not in your hicsperience to know howssleepy-I am-jus'-now."
"You had a nephew," said his subtle companion, raising his voice, and
not appearing to heed the last remark.
"An' 'numbrella," added Mr. BUMSTEAD, feebly.
"I say you had a nephew," reiterated the other, "and that nephew
disappeared in a very mysterious manner. Now I'm a literary man--"
"C'd tell that by y'r-headerhair," murmured the Ritualistic organist.
Left y'r wife yet, sir?"
"I say I'm a literary man," persisted TRACEY CLEWS, sharply. "I'm going
to write a great American Novel, called 'The Amateur Detective,' founded
upon the story of this very EDWIN DROOD, and have come to Bumsteadville
to get all the particulars. I've picked up considerable from Gospeler
SIMPSON, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, and even the woman from the Mulberry street
place who came after you the other morning. But now I want to know
something from you.--What has become of your nephew?"
He put the question suddenly, and with a kind of suppressed leap at him
whom he addressed.
Pages:
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28