PUNCHINELLO

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,

As an Adaptation of the Original English version, was concluded in the last Number.
The remaining portion will be continued as Original,

By ORPHEUS C. KERR,

Commencing with the present issue.

See 15th page for Extra Premiums.

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.

AN ADAPTATION.

BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.

CHAPTER XXIV.

MR. CLEWS AT HIS NOVEL.^[1]

Thrown into Rembrandtish relief by the light of a garish kerosene lamp upon the table: with one discouraged lock of hair hanging over his nose, and straw hat pushed so far back from his phrenological brow that its vast rim had the fine artistic effect of a huge saintly nimbus: Mr. BUMSTEAD sat gynmastically crosswise in an easy-chair, over an arm of which his slender lower limbs limply dangled, and elaborately performed one of the grander works of BACH upon an irritable accordion. Now, winking with intense rapidity, and going through the muscular motions of an excitable person resolutely pulling out an obstinate and inexplicable drawer from somewhere about his knees, he produced sustained and mournful notes, as of canine distress in the backyard; anon, with eyes nearly closed and the straw nimbus sliding still further back, his manipulation was that of an excessively weary gentleman slowly compressing a large sponge, thereby squeezing out certain choking, snorting, guttural sounds, as of a class softly studying the German language in another room; and, finally, with an impatient start from the unexpected slumber into which the last shaky pianissimo had momentarily betrayed him, he caught the untamed instrument in mid-air, just as it was treacherously getting away from him, frantically balanced it there for an instant on all his clutching finger-tips, and had it prisoner again for a renewal of the weird symphony.

Seriously offended at the discovery that he could not drop asleep in his own room, for a minute, without the music stopping and the accordion trying to slip off, the Ritualistic organist was not at all softened in temper by almost simultaneously realizing that the farther skirt of his long linen coat was standing out nearly straight from his person, and, apparently, fluttering in a heavy draught.

"Who's-been-ope'nin'-th'-window?" he sternly asked, "What's-meaning-'f-such-a-gale-at thistime-'f-year?"

"Do I intrude?" inquired a voice close at hand.

Looking very carefully along the still extended skirt of his coat towards exactly the point of the compass from which the voice seemed to come, Mr. BUMSTEAD at last awoke to the conviction that the tension of his garment and its breezy agitation were caused by the tugging of a human figure.

"Do I intrude?" repeated Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, dropping the skirt as he spoke. "Have I presumed too greatly in coming to request the favor of a short private interview?"

Slipping quickly into a more genteel but rather rigid position on his chair, the Ritualistic organist made an airy pass at him with the accordion.

"Any doors where youwasborn, sir?"

"There were, Mr. BUMSTEAD."

"People ever knock when th' wanted t'-come-in, sir?"

"Why, I did knock at your door," answered Mr. CLEWS, conciliatingly. "I knocked and knocked, but you kept on playing; and after I finally took the liberty to come in and pull you by the coat, it was ten minutes before you found it out."

In an attempt to look into the speaker's inmost soul, Mr. BUMSTEAD fell into a doze, from which the crash of his accordion to the floor aroused him in time to behold a very curious proceeding on the part of Mr. CLEWS. That gentleman successively peered up the chimney, through the windows, and under the furniture of the room, and then stealthily took a seat near his rather languid observer.

"Mr. BUMSTEAD, you know me as a temporary boarder under the same roof with you. Other people know me merely as a dead-beat. May I trust you with a secret?"

A pair of blurred and glassy eyes looked into his from under a huge straw hat, and a husky question followed his:

"Did y' ever read WORDSWORTH'S poem-'f-th' Excursion, sir?"

"Not that I remember."

"Then, sir," exclaimed the organist, with spasmodic animation—"then's not in your hicsperience to know howssleepy-I am-jus'-now."

"You had a nephew," said his subtle companion, raising his voice, and not appearing to heed the last remark.

"An' 'numbrella," added Mr. BUMSTEAD, feebly.

"I say you had a nephew," reiterated the other, "and that nephew disappeared in a very mysterious manner. Now I'm a literary man—"

"C'd tell that by y'r-headerhair," murmured the Ritualistic organist. Left y'r wife yet, sir?"

"I say I'm a literary man," persisted TRACEY CLEWS, sharply. "I'm going to write a great American Novel, called 'The Amateur Detective,' founded upon the story of this very EDWIN DROOD, and have come to Bumsteadville to get all the particulars. I've picked up considerable from Gospeler SIMPSON, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, and even the woman from the Mulberry street place who came after you the other morning. But now I want to know something from you.—What has become of your nephew?"

He put the question suddenly, and with a kind of suppressed leap at him whom 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