Excerpt
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION.
BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.
CHAPTER XXIV.
MR. CLEWS AT HIS NOVEL.
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....