good Canton-flannel, suitable for a person of medium complexion?--
No?--Very well, then: send half a pound of cloves to his house before
night.

There are Ritualistic services at Saint Cow's, and he renders the
organ-accompaniments with such unusual freedom from reminiscences of the
bacchanalian repertory, that the Gospeler is impelled to compliment him
as they leave the cathedral.

"You're in fine tone to-day, BUMSTEAD. Not quite so much volume to your
playing as sometimes, but still the tune could be recognized."

"That, sir," answers the organist, explainingly, "was because I held my
right wrist firmly with my left hand, and played mostly with only one
finger. The method, I find, secures steadiness of touch and precision in
hitting the right key."

"I should think it would, Mr. BUMSTEAD. You seem to be more free than
ordinarily from your occasional indisposition."

"I am less nervous, Mr. SIMPSON," is the reply. "I've made up my mind to
swear off, sir.--I'll tell you what I'll do, SIMPSON," continues the
Ritualistic organist, with sudden confidential affability. "I'll make an
agreement with you, that whichever of us catches the other slipping-up
first in the New Year, shall be entitled to call for whatever he wants."

"Bless me! I don't understand," ejaculates the Gospeler.

"No matter, sir. No matter!" retorts the mystic of the organ-loft,
abruptly returning to his original gloom. "My company awaits me, and I