black bottle, thoughtfully crunched a couple of cloves from another
pocket--staring stonily all the while--and then addressed the youthful
shade:--

"Where's th' umbrella?"

"Monster of forgetfulness! murderer of memory!" spoke the spirit,
sternly. "In this, the last rough resting place of the impecunious dead,
do you dare to discuss commonplace topics with one of the departed? Look
at me, uncle, clove-befogged, and shrink appalled from the dread sight,
and pray for mercy."

"Ishthis prop'r language t' address-t'-y'r-relative?" inquired Mr.
BUMSTEAD, in a severely reproachful manner.

"Relative!" repeated the apparition, sepulchrally. "What sort of
relative is he, who, when his sister's orphaned son is sleeping at his
feet, conveys the unconscious orphan, head downward, through a midnight
tempest, to a place like this, and leaves him here, and then forgets
where he has put him?"

"I give't up," said the organist, after a moment's consideration.

"The answer is: he's a dead-beat." continued the young ghost, losing his
temper. "And what, JOHN BUMSTEAD, did you do with my oroide watch and
other jewels?"

"Musht've spilt'm on the road here," returned the musing uncle, faintly
remembering that they had been found upon the turnpike, shortly after
Christmas, by Gospeler SIMPSON. "Are you dead, EDWIN?"