he addressed. Immeasurable was his surprise at the perfectly calm
answer--

"I can't r'member hicsactly, sir."

"Can't remember!--Can't remember what?"

"Where-I-put't."

"_It?_"

"Yes. Th' umbrella."

"What on earth are you talking about?" exclaimed Mr. CLEWS, in a rage.
"--Come! Wake up!--What have umbrellas to do with this?"

Rousing himself to something like temporary consciousness, Mr. BUMSTEAD
slowly climbed to his feet, and, with a wild kind of swoop, came heavily
down with both hands upon the shoulders of his questioner.

"What now?" asked that startled personage.

"You want t' know 'bout th' umbrella?" said BUMSTEAD, with straw hat
amazingly awry, and linen coat a perfect map of creases.

"Yes!--You're crushing me!" panted Mr. CLEWS.

"Th' umbrella!" cried Mr. BUMSTEAD, suddenly withdrawing his hands and
swaying before his visitor like a linen person on springs--"This's what
there's 'bout 't: _Where th' umbrella is, there is Edwin also!_"

Astounded by, this bewildering confession, and fearful that the uncle of
Mr. DROOD would be back in his chair and asleep again if he gave him a
chance, the excited inquisitor sprang from his chair, and slowly and
carefully backed the wildly glaring object of his solicitation until his
shoulders and elbows were safely braced against the mantel-piece. Then,
like one inspired, he grasped a bottle of soda water from the table, and
forced the reviving liquid down his staring patient's throat; as quickly
tore off his straw hat, newly moistened the damp sponge in it at a
neighboring washstand, and replaced both on the aching head; and,
finally, placed in one of his tremulous hands a few cloves from a saucer
on the mantel-shelf.

"You are better now? You can tell me more?" he said, resting a moment
from his violent exertions.

With the unsettled air of one coming out of a complicated dream, Mr.
BUMSTEAD chewed the cloves musingly; then, after nodding excessively,
with a hideous smile upon his countenance, suddenly threw an arm about
the neck of his restorer and wept loudly upon his bosom.

"My fr'en'," he wailed, in a damp voice, "lemme confess to you. I'm a
mis'able man, my fr'en'; perfectly mis'able. These cloves--these
insidious tropical spices--have been thebaneofmyexistence. On Chrishm's
night--_that_ Chrishm's night--I toogtoomany. Wha'scons'q'nce? I put m'
nephew an' m' umbrella away somewhere, an 've neverb'n able
terremembersince!"

Still sustaining his