up all rivalry at once and instantly sets in despair, Father DEAN
departs to his dinner, and Mr. SIMPSON, the Gospeler, betakes himself
cheerily to the second-floor-back where Mr. BUMSTEAD lives. Mr. BUMSTEAD
is a shady-looking man of about six and twenty, with black hair and
whiskers of the window-brush school, and a face reminding you of the
BOURBONS. As, although lighting his lamp, he has, abstractedly, almost
covered it with his hat, his room is but imperfectly illuminated, and
you can just detect the accordeon on the window-sill, and, above the
mantel, an unfinished sketch of a school-girl. (There is no artistic
merit in this picture; in which, indeed, a simple triangle on end
represents the waist, another and slightly larger triangle the skirts,
and straight-lines with rake-like terminations the arms and hands.)

"Called to ask how you are, and offer Father DEAN'S compliments," says
the Gospeler.

"I'm allright, shir!" says Mr. BUMSTEAD, rising from the rug where he
has been temporarily reposing, and dropping his umbrella. He speaks
almost with ferocity.

"You are awaiting your nephew, EDWIN DROOD?"

"Yeshir." As he answers, Mr. BUMSTEAD leans languidly far across the
table, and seems vaguely amazed at the aspect of the lamp with his hat
upon it.

Mr. SIMPSON retires softly, stops to greet some one at the foot of the
stairs, and, in another moment, a young man fourteen years old enters
the room with his carpet-bag.