ountry 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