s fight before
any recognizable tune can he rescued from it, is, perhaps, the most
exhausting instrument known to evening amateurs and maddened
neighborhoods, Mr. BUMSTEAD passes three athletic hours. At the end of
that time, after repeatedly tripping-up its exasperated organist over
wrong keys in the last bar, the accordeon finally relinquishes the
concluding note with a dismal whine of despair, and retires in complete
collapse to its customary place of waiting. Then the conquering
performer changes his towel for a hat which would look better if it had
not been so often worn in bed, places an antique black bottle in one
pocket of his coat and a few cloves in the other; hangs an unlighted
lantern before him by a cord passing about his neck, and, with his
umbrella under his arm, goes softly down stairs and out of the house.

Repairing to the marble-yard and home of OLD MORTARITY, which are on the
outskirts of Bumsteadville, he wanders through mortar-heaps, monuments
brought for repair, and piles of bricks, toward a whitewashed residence
of small demensions with a light at the window.

"JOHN McLAUGHLIN, ahoy!"

In response, the master of the mansion promptly opens the door, and it
is then perceptible that his basement, parlor, spare-bedroom and attic
are all on one floor, and that a couple of pigs are spending the season
with him. Showing his visitor into this ingeniously condensed
establishment, he induces the pigs to retire to a corner, and then dons
his hat.

"Are you ready, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN?"

"Please the pigs, I am, Mr. BUMSTEAD," answers MCLAUGHLIN, taking down
from a hook a lantern, which, like his companion's, he hangs from his
neck by a cord. "My spirits is equal to any number of ghosts to-night,
sir, if we meet 'em."

"Spirits!" ejaculates the Ritualistic organist, shifting his umbrella
for a moment while he hurriedly draws the antique bottle from his
pocket. "You're nervous to-night, J. MCLAUGHLIN, and need a little of
the venerable JAMES AKER'S West Indian Restorative.--I'll try it first
to make sure that I haven't mistaken the phial."

He rests the elongated orifice of the diaphanous flask upon his lips for
a brief interval of critical inspection, and then applies it
thoughtfully to the mouth of OLD MORTARITY.

"Some more! Some more!" pleads the aged MCLAUGHLIN, when the Jamaican
nervine is abruptly jerked from his lips.

"Silence! Com on," is the stern response of the other, who, as he moves
from