TOM MOORE (continued 2)

At this moment Lord Brooking, who had been chatting in a corner with Mr. Dyke, came forward, followed by the old gentleman.

"Sir Percival," said his lordship, a malicious twinkle in his eye, "Mr. Dyke has invited us to try a little wine of his own manufacture. You will be charmed, I know."

"A rare variety of grape, Sir Percival," said Mr. Dyke, delightedly. "In fact, I venture to assert that you have never tasted such a vintage."

"Very likely not, Mr. Dyke," replied Sir Percival, quite convinced that such was the case, and not at all sure that he might not regard himself as favored by fortune on that account.

"You will honor me?" asked Mr. Dyke, eagerly.

Sir Percival saw he could not refuse without wounding the pride of his would-be host, and therefore yielded politely.

"I shall be delighted, I am sure," he answered. Then, lowering his voice, he murmured in Brooking's ear:

"I owe you one, my lord."

Brooking laughed and took the baronet's arm.

"Come, then," said he, pointing to the door with his walking-stick.

"Perhaps Mr. Dyke will read us another poem," said Sir Percival, hopefully.

"Heaven forbid!" whispered his lordship.

"Could anything be more appropriate?" continued the baronet. "We drink the wine pressed from our friend's own grapes, while we listen to the poetry his muse has sipped from the fountain of the gods upon Parnassus."

"You should write poetry, Sir Percival," said Mr. Dyke, much flattered.

"I 'll leave that to Mr. Moore," answered the baronet, advancing towards Bessie.

"There are several other things I wish you would leave to me," said the poet.

"No doubt," replied Sir Percival. "My arm, Mistress Dyke?"

"I must decline that honor," said Bessie. "My duties require me to remain here for a while longer."

"I am sorry for that, Mistress Dyke. You will join us, Mr. Moore?"

"I never drink, Sir Percival," replied Moore, endeavoring to look virtuous without much success.

"Indeed?" said the baronet. "You had better begin, sir. Then perhaps you would write less poetry."

Moore failed to find a suitable retort, and therefore mounted the little platform on which stood the blackboard, as Mr. Dyke, Lord Brooking, and Farrell moved towards the door.

"Mistress Dyke," said Sir Percival, "if you can spare a thought this afternoon, perhaps you will oblige me by reconsidering your decision in regard to London?"

"I have quite made up my mind, thank you," answered Bessie, dusting off her desk with her apron. "Simple country folk would be out of place in so great a city."

"Brains and beauty are made welcome everywhere," answered the baronet. "Moreover, it is a woman's privilege to change her mind."

"Will you be long, my daughter?" asked Mr. Dyke, turning at the door.

"Not very long, father," she answered, demurely. "The--the arithmetic is very difficult for to-morrow, and I must be prepared for the lesson."

Moore helped himself to a piece of chalk, and began figuring on the blackboard.

"What are you doing?" asked Sir Percival, eying the poet through his glass.

"I am preparing the arithmetic," replied Moore, marking a huge six upon the board. Then turning he counted those present. "Six," said he. "One--two--three--four."

As he spoke he checked off all but Bessie and himself upon his fingers.

"Four from six," he continued, doing the subtraction with the chalk, "leaves two, Bessie and me. Good afternoon, gentlemen."

Every one laughed but Sir Percival, who contented himself with a faint smile.

"Quite so," said he, "quite a joke. My time for laughing will come later."

"The later the better," said Moore. "He who laughs last laughs best. Delay it as long as you can, and you will enjoy it the more."

"No doubt, Mr. Moore. Good afternoon to you, Mistress Dyke. Sir, I 'm your most obedient."

"Good-day, Sir Percival," said Bessie, dropping a courtesy as the baronet turned again at the door. Then, as his tall figure vanished from the threshold, she faced her lover with a little sigh of relief.

"Tom," she said reprovingly, "you must not speak as you do to Sir Percival. For a little while I feared you would have a real quarrel."

"Perhaps that would be the easiest way out of it, after all," said Moore, belligerently. "I 'd ask nothing better than to get a chance at him."

"I can't have you fighting with every stranger that comes to Ireland, Tom," said Bessie, assuming that slight air of proprietorship that is so soothing to an eager lover, implying as it does a regard not only of the present moment, but apparently keeping in sight possibilities of the future. Moore felt this subtle influence and yielded to it gradually.

"Thanks be to St. Patrick, they are gone at last," said he in a sulky tone. "Now you can do your arithmetic."

"Tom, you are cross," said Bessie, reproachfully. "This is what I get for staying here to please you."

"What was Sir Percival saying to you so confidentially just now?"

"He was coaxing me to go to London."

"I knew it," cried Moore, angrily. "I 'll do that gay lad an injury if he keeps on."

"Hush, Tom," said Bessie, reprovingly.

"I 'll do something desperate to him," continued Moore, striding up and down the room in his rage.

"Tom," said the girl, in her most persuasive tone. "Tom!"

"I 'll punish him terribly if he don't let you alone."

Bessie seized him by the arm and compelled him to halt.

"Tom dear," she asked, "what will you do?"

"I--I--I 'll dedicate a volume of my poems to him, if he don't look out," declared Moore, yielding to the girl's calming influence.

"But I am not going to London," laughed Bessie, "so you 'll let him off this time, won't you, Tom?"

"You promise you will not go, Bessie?" asked Moore, earnestly, taking her hands in his.

"I promise that while you are as true and kind as you have been to-day, I 'll not even think of it again,"' she answered, soberly.

"True?" repeated Moore, tenderly. "Why, every thought of mine has been faithful since first I met you. Kind? The devil himself could n't be anything but sweet to you, I 'm sure."

Bessie drew her hands away, satisfied that she had made sure of the public peace continuing unfractured so far as her lover was concerned.

"Now," she said, in pretty imitation of his previous cross speech, "now you can do your arithmetic."

"Can I?" answered Moore, laughing. "Then the first sum will be an addition. One added to two. One kiss to two lips."

"And the second?" asked Bessie, at a safe distance.

"Subtraction. Two kisses from two lips."

"That would leave nothing, Tom."

"Nothing but a taste of heaven," replied he, hopefully approaching her.

"A kiss is not right," objected Bessie, in her most moral accents.

"Then give me one that is left," urged Moore. "I see you have plenty, Bessie."

She shook her head.

"Time enough for that when you have been to London. You might see some girl there whom you would much prefer, and I 'll not run the risk till I know that it is n't so," she answered wisely.

"Ah, Bessie, Bessie darling, why will you doubt me so? Oh, I love you, dearest, I love you."

"Sometimes," she answered in a softer tone, "sometimes I almost believe you mean what you say. Ah, Tom, if I could only be sure!"

An eager light came into Moore's fine eyes.

"What can I do to make you sure?" he whispered, his voice vibrant with love and tenderness.

"I will tell you, Tom. Wait till time has proved your heart beyond all doubting. We are both young, and the world is all before us. For you, dearest Tom, it holds fame and fortune--"

"Ah, Bessie," he interrupted, "do you think so?"

"There will come a day," she answered, proudly, "when in all Ireland there will be no name so boasted of, so loved and reverenced, as Thomas Moore."

"And yet if this be true, I 'd throw it all away gladly, if by so doing, I 'd be sure of you," Moore answered, sincerity written on his face. "Bessie my darlin', why won't you believe in me? Won't you love me, Bessie? Can't you love me, Bessie, dear?"

For a moment the girl hesitated. In her heart she yielded, but before the words of surrender left her lips she rallied and remained outwardly true to her resolve. Had Moore taken her in his arms and kissed her, reading aright the soft glowing eyes bent on him with so loving a glance, she would have faltered in her determination, but he did not realize that the time had that second come when she would have sacrificed to her love for him her preconceived and carefully cherished idea of what was right and best for them both, and so he failed to take advantage of the one opportunity to have his own way that capricious fortune granted him. Had he been wiser, his whole future life might have been changed. London might never have known the sweetest poet ever brought forth by Ireland and the afterwards First Nightingale of Fashion's drawing-room might have lived and died an obscure rhymer in some country town.

Like a knowing lass, Bessie, finding herself on the verge of a tear, sought safety in the relaxing influence of a laugh, and extending an ink-besmeared finger in reproach, demanded if Moore intended to make good his promise to remove the stain.

Moore chuckled and the tenseness of the situation was removed.

"Faith," said he, abandoning his attempt to persuade Bessie from her way of thinking, "I 'll wash your hands for you, for fear, if I don't, you 'll wash your hands of me."

Turning on his heel, Moore crossed to the corner where he had left his bucket of water, and, picking it up, placed it beside the basin that lay on the bench.

"Come here, Bessie, and I 'll scrub you clean as a whistle," he announced cheerfully.

Bessie held her hand over the basin obediently, and Moore poured over it the water from the pail.

"Oh--h!" cried the schoolmistress.

"What ails you, Bessie?"

"My, but that water is cold."

"True for you," replied Moore, rubbing her hand with a cake of soap he found in the basin, "but you have so often thrown cold water on my heart it is only fair I should pour some on your hand."

"Oh, I see, Mr. Moore," replied Bessie, "and now that you have given me so much soft soap, you think you will try hard soap for a change."

Moore lathered her fingers vigorously.

"You have guessed my secret. It is a lovely little hand you have, Bessie, but your nails are too long, darlin'."

"If you behave yourself, they won't bother you, Tom."

"Each finger a lily with a rosebud for a tip," poetized Moore, presuming to kiss the bouquet. Bessie snapped her finger, sending a shower of tiny drops in the youth's face.

"A water lily?" asked she.

"Oh!" cried Moore. "Murder! Murder! You have put the soap in my eye," and he forthwith proceeded to dance around in a manner more vigorous than graceful.

Bessie was conscience-stricken at the result of her joke.

"What a shame, Tom. I am so sorry."

"Oh--h!" exclaimed Moore, sitting down on the bench with his face in his handkerchief. "Help! Thieves!"

"Oh, Tom," said Bessie, full of regret, "does it hurt you dreadfully?"

"It does that."

"Oh, I am so sorry."

"Thank you kindly."

Kneeling down beside Moore, Bessie drew aside the handkerchief and kissed him soundly on the eye thus brought into view.

"Who did that?" demanded Moore, as though in doubt.

"I did," answered Bessie, boldly. "Is it better?"

"Yes," replied Moore, "but the other eye is full of soap. Cure that, too, like a darlin', Bessie."

"There," said the girl, decisively. "I don't believe it hurt you at all. You have made a fool of me."

Feeling himself detected, Moore abandoned his pretence of suffering.

"Well," he said, with a broad smile, "I am a kiss to the good at all events. Many thanks, Bessie."

"Tom, I am very angry with you."

"I don't believe it, Bessie. You ought to be complimented to see how hard I am willing to work for a kiss."

"I 'll not believe you again."

"That is nothing new, Bessie, darlin'. You are a most unbelieving young female at best."

"There is some one at the door, Tom," said Bessie, her quick ear hearing a foot on the doorstep.

"Come in," said Moore, in answer to Farrell's knock, and that young gentleman entered, carrying himself in so evident an imitation of Sir Percival Lovelace that the poet roared outright.

"What is the joke?" asked Farrell, not at all pleased at Moore's laughter.

"You are, Terry," replied the other. "Faith, it is too bad entirely that we have n't a glass so you could see. My, but you are a macaroni, Terence. Is Lovelace pleased with his pupil?"

And, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket in emulation of Farrell's manipulation of his, Moore proceeded to swagger up and down the schoolhouse in so accurate an imitation of Farrell's recently adopted manner of comporting himself that even Bessie laughed.

Farrell grew red with anger, but, deciding this was not the time to resent Moore's fun, apparently took the performance in good part.

"You are in fine spirits, Tom," he observed, laying his hat on a convenient stool.

"Never better," replied Moore, jovially. "Can I do anything for you, Terry, my boy?"

"Have you forgotten our engagement?"

"Faith, I had that, Terence."

Then, turning to Bessie, Moore continued:

"You see, alanna, how you drive everything but yourself out of my head?"

"That is as it may be," remarked Bessie, sagely, taking her hat from the nail in the wall supporting it. "I must be going. There is my arithmetic, Tom. You can carry it for me."

Moore took the book she held out to him.

"I 'll not be long," he said, as though in excuse. "I promised to have a bit of a confab with Terry. When that is over with, I 'll join you at your house."

Bessie nodded pleasantly and walked over to the door.

"Well," she said, looking out as she opened it, "I shan't lack for an escort. There is Sir Percival now."

"Wait a minute," said Moore, hastening towards her, but she bid him good-bye, laughingly, and shut the door behind her as she stepped out.

Moore, ill pleased, returned to Farrell.

"Did you hear that?" he demanded.

Farrell admitted that he had, and flicked an imaginary speck of dirt from his ruffle.

"You have her arithmetic to comfort you," he suggested.

"It's little comfort I ever get out of such books," said Moore, laying the volume down on Bessie's desk. "Now tell me what ails you, Terence?"

"If I do," said Farrell, cautiously, "you 'll never repeat it to a soul?"

"Shall I cross my heart, lad?"

Farrell shook his head gravely.

"I'll leave that for Mistress Dyke to attend to," he answered.

"Troth," said Moore, smiling, "she made it all criss-cross long ago. But go on, Terry. Unbosom yourself."

"It's this, Tom. My sister Winnie is secretly engaged to Captain Arbuckle of the Ninth Dragoons."

"Engaged to an Englishman!" ejaculated Moore, as though horrified. "And secretly. That adds insult to injury."

"Aye, secretly," repeated Farrell, dolefully.

"That's how you came to know, doubtless," remarked Moore. "Oh, it is awful, Terence, but cheer up, lad. You won't have to be Arbuckle's wife. Let that comfort you, Terry."

"That is not all, Tom. I am poorer than you are, and I have a debt of honor of fifty pounds due to-morrow."

"Whew!" ejaculated Moore, in astonishment. "Well, whose fault is that?"

"Yours, Tom," replied Farrell, boldly.

"Mine? How the devil can that be?" asked Moore, leaning against the desk for comfort and support.

"It is very simple. I thought you were sweet on Winnie."

"Me? Never!" cried Moore. "Not for a fraction of a minute. Not that Winnie is n't a dear girl, for none knows that she is such better than I, but we would never do for a couple."

"Unfortunately I thought otherwise," responded Farrell. "That is the trouble."

"You interest me very much," said the poet, helping himself to a seat on the desk. "Go on with your tale of woe."

"I was so sure of it," continued Farrell, "that I bet Lieutenant Cholmondely you would propose to her before the first of the month."

"A nice performance," commented Moore, swinging his feet. "Then what?"

"Arbuckle heard me, and, like a sneak, went off quietly and asked Winnie the next day."

"And was accepted? Serves him right, Terry."

"But the bet stands," persisted Farrell, sorrowfully. "And to-morrow is the first of the month. I have n't a penny to pay Cholmondely."

"It is too bad, Terry," replied Moore, sympathetically, "but you should never have made such a bet. It shows lack of respect for Winnie. At least some people would think so, though I am sure you never meant to convey any such impression."

"I thought you might help me," said Farrell, disconsolately. "Can't you, Tom?"

"I have n't quarter the money, Terry."

"But you are wanting to go to London, are n't you? Remember you are n't supposed to know Winnie is promised."

"True."

"Then, why can't you ask her and be refused? Cholmondely would pay me the money, and there would be fifty pounds to divide between us, for I 'll give you half if you help me out of the scrape."

Moore frowned.

"That would n't be honest, Terry," he said severely.

"Was it fair for Arbuckle to propose before the first, knowing, as he did, that I had till then to win?" demanded Farrell, in an injured tone.

"No," said Moore, "it was n't, though, of course, if he had waited a thousand years, I would n't have proposed in sober earnest."

"But you'll do it in fun?"

"She is already engaged?"

"She is crazy over the captain," said Farrell, enthusiastically.

"Then she would be sure to refuse me."

"She would, and, Tom, you 'll have saved my honor," said Farrell, pleadingly.

"It is a shame for Cholmondely to get your money and Arbuckle your sister. I 'll do it to oblige you, Terry," said Moore, "but I want none of your winnings. What I do is to help you out of a bad scrape, for friendship's sake, my lad."

"How can I thank you, Tom?" said Farrell, inwardly exultant, but to all appearance almost overcome at his friend's willingness to come to the rescue.

"By being more careful in the future about your betting," said Moore, kindly. As he spoke he drew nearer the window and caught a glimpse of Mistress Farrell approaching.

"By the powers, here comes Winnie now," he exclaimed.

"True for you, Tom, and headed this way."

"Now you get out of here, Terry, and we will have my rejection over with at once. I 'll be through in a jiffy."

"Don't be too precipitate or she will suspect something," advised Farrell.

"Leave it to me," said Moore. "You stand just outside the door there and you can listen to it all. Oh, it will be fine, Terry."

"Say, 'Will you have me?' Tom," said Terence, going to the door opposite to the one which his sister was now approaching.

"Don't try to teach me," said Moore. "It's myself that's to do this proposing, and I need no instruction. All you have to do is to listen. Don't go away now."

"Not I," said Terence. "I won't be easy till it's over," and, laughing under his breath, he shut the door.

Truly fortune favored him this day, for coming up the hill was Bessie, not more than a moment or two behind Winnie Farrell, who by this time had entered the school.

"Good-day, to you, Winnie," said Moore, politely. "Sure, it is blooming you are this afternoon. Like a whole bouquet of blossoms, let alone a single flower."

Winnie looked pleased at the compliment and smiled upon its bestower.

"How gallant you are to-day," she said in a flattered tone.

"Oh, I said it this day, but I think it all the week," replied Moore, placing a stool for the lady.

"Where is Terence?" she asked, seating herself. "He promised to wait for me here."

"I expect him back in a little while," replied Moore, casting a furtive glance in the direction of the door behind which he believed his friend to be concealed. "You can wait for him, Winnie. I have n't seen much of you lately."

"You know the road that leads to Farrell's, Tom," said the girl with a laugh. She was a plump little morsel with a soft voice, and a saucy tip-tilted nose; a pleasant, generous-hearted little soul, decidedly good to look upon.

"I have not forgotten the road," said Moore, meaningly.

"Then, why don't you come to see me?"

"For fear that I would n't be as welcome as Captain Arbuckle," said Moore, trying to look knowing.

Winnie looked surprised.

"Captain Arbuckle?" she said, wonderingly. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, Winnie."

"No, I don't, Tom."

"You do, too, you artless creature," said Moore, laughing.

"What are you driving at, Tom?" asked Winnie, genuinely puzzled.

"At you, Winnie, dear," replied Moore, and then, conscious that his courage was rapidly leaving him, he proceeded desperately with his performance.

"Winnie Farrell, I love you."

"What?" cried the girl, rising from the stool.

"I love you, Winnie. Say you won't marry me," said Moore, relieved that he had finished. His satisfaction lasted only a moment for Winnie threw her arms around his neck with a little, joyous cry.

"Tom," she whispered, "I 'll be your wife gladly, for I 've loved you for weeks."

"What?" cried Moore. "Oh, Winnie, you are only joking? You don't mean it, Winnie? You don't, do you?"

Bessie gave a little sob. She had quietly opened the door in time to hear Moore's declaration, and, thunderstruck, had stood there, unperceived until now.

Winnie, abashed at Bessie's look of scorn and hatred, did not linger. The door closed behind her, and Moore, just beginning to realize his predicament, stood facing his angered sweetheart.

"Bessie," he said, chokingly. "Bessie, I can explain."

"I do not wish you to explain," she answered, her voice all a-tremble.

"Hear me, Bessie," he began, desperately, but she turned a deaf ear to his words.

"I 'll never believe you again, Tom Moore," she said, flinging from her bosom the rose he had given her. "I am done with you."

Then, turning, she closed the door in his face, and left him.

Book Two

"New hope may bloom,

And days may come

Of milder, calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As Love's young dream:

No, there's nothing half so sweet in life

As Love's young dream."

Chapter Eight

INTRODUCES MONTGOMERY JULIEN ETHELBERT SPINKS

In the attic of an old house in Holywell Street, London, a frowsy-headed, freckled-faced youth was peering from the gabled window that fronted on the busy thoroughfare below. This lad was conspicuous for his lack of beauty. He had a round jolly face, a turned-up and rather negatively developed nose, and eyes of a neutral shade that might be described as gray or green with equal correctness. His mouth was capable of stretching to a length almost awe-inspiring when first beheld, but could be forgiven for this extravagance, because the teeth thus exposed were white and regular. His chin was square and slightly protruding, imparting a rather pugnacious expression to a face that in other respects seemed to indicate that its owner was of a decidedly good-humored disposition. He was stockily built, so thick-set, in fact, that a quick glance would incline one to the belief that he was rather plump than otherwise, but a closer examination would have revealed that he owed his size to the possession of an unusual amount of bone and muscle. This young gentleman rejoiced in the sobriquet of Buster, though his real title was much more elegant, while lacking entirely in the almost epigrammatic terseness of his nickname. At the present time he was anxiously waiting for the approach of an old-clothesman who was slowly making his way down the street, meanwhile inviting trade at the top of his lungs. Buster and the old-clothesman were acquaintances of long standing, though their relations were by no means of a friendly nature, the eagerness with which the boy awaited the man's coming being caused entirely by a desire to drop a paper bag full of water upon the latter's head from the height of three stories, a proceeding which Buster was sanguine would be productive of reason for unlimited merriment. He had the bag, empty as yet, clutched tightly in one hand, while the other was within easy reach of a cracked pitcher full of water standing on the floor near the window. A disreputable-looking bulldog, impartially divided as to color between brindle and dirty white, was inspecting proceedings in a most interested manner from his seat on a rickety stool in the nearest corner.

Buster sighed with impatience and the dog yawned in sympathy.

"Lord Castlereagh, your rudeness is honly hexceeded by your himperliteness, the both of wich is hunsurpassed save by your bad manners. You should put your bloomin' paw hup before that 'ole in your phis'omy when you sees fit to hexhibit your inards."

Lord Castlereagh cocked one dilapidated ear in token of attention and wagged his apology for a tail vigorously.

"You feels no remorse, eh?" demanded Buster, severely.

"Woof!" remarked Lord Castlereagh, in extenuation.

"You 're a sinner, that's wot you are," announced the boy, decisively, "and Hi 'as grave fear that you 'll never git to the dog-star when you are disceased."

The bulldog seemed depressed at this prediction, and, as though resolved to convince Buster of the injustice of his statement, leaped off the stool and approached him with various contortions supposed to be illustrative of regret and a desire to obtain restoration to a place in the youth's approval.

At this moment the old-clothesman paused beneath the window, and putting his hand trumpet-wise to his mouth, shrilly declared his ability and willingness to purchase whatever cast-off garments those dwelling in the vicinity might desire to sell. Buster promptly filled the paper bag with water from the pitcher, and, leaning out as far as he dared, dropped it with precise aim on the head of the old-clothesman. It landed fair and square upon the crown of the dilapidated beaver ornamenting his head, and burst with a soft squash, drenching his shoulders and scattering a spray all around him.

The dealer uttered a stream of oaths, and, mopping his face with a handkerchief of dubious hue, looked around for the author of this apparently unprovoked attack. As the missile had come from above, the fellow naturally looked upward in search of an enemy, but found nothing more suspicious in view than the head of a bulldog which was thrust from a window in dignified contemplation of the scene. Unfortunately the old-clothesman was well acquainted with the forbidding countenance of the dog, and promptly attributing his recent ducking to the usual companion of the animal, proceeded to vigorously announce his doubts as to the respectability of Buster's immediate ancestry and his subsequent intentions when he should be so lucky as to encounter the aforesaid youth. It is almost needless to say that these plans for the future were scarcely of a nature to meet with the boy's approval, involving as they did complete fistic annihilation. At once the head of Buster appeared in the window, an expression of surprise lighting his round face only to give way to one of gentle gratification when his eye fell upon the irate peddler.

"Did Hi 'ear some one mentioning of my name?" he demanded pleasantly. "Oh, 'ow do you do, Mr. Bekowsky? His your 'ealth bloomin'?"

"I 'll bloom you, you imperent little villain," responded Bekowsky, threateningly, shaking his fist in his anger.

"Wot's that, dear sir?" inquired Buster, in a polite tone. "You seems hexcited, Mr. Bekowsky. Hits very dangersome to get so over'eated, hand the summer his 'ardly went yet."

"I 'll overheat you if I lays my hands on you," responded the old-clothesman.

"Then Hi 'll 'ave to be a cooling of you fer protection," announced Buster, cheerfully, and without the slightest warning he emptied the contents of the pitcher he had been concealing behind him over the enraged Bekowsky, drenching him thoroughly.

"Cool happlications is to be recommended when feverish," he remarked, carefully lowering the pitcher to the floor of the room without withdrawing his head from the window, for, like all wise generals, he considered it unsafe to lose sight of the enemy even for a moment while the rear was unprotected.

"You murdering little devil, I 'll pay you for this," yelled the peddler.

"Hat the usual rates, hor special price?" asked Buster, looking interested.

A crowd began to gather, but this did not interfere with the boy's pleasure in the slightest degree.

"It's that little rat again," said a red-faced, bull-headed cobbler. "He 's the pest of the neighborhood."

"You houghtent to let your disapintment carry you so far, Mr. Smirk," said Buster, reprovingly. "'Cause your shoes don't just suit my cultivated taste in the way of feet, it don't follow nobody helse 'll buy 'em. They 're doosed poor stuff, o' course, but no doubt there is some foolish enough to wear 'em."

The cobbler cursed him enthusiastically, and, encouraged by this support, the bespattered Bekowsky borrowed a rattan of a bystander, and announced his intention of favoring Buster with a call, for the purpose of inflicting a castigation which he described as much needed.

"Well, well!" exclaimed the lad, who was to be thus favored. "Ham I to be so honored? Why did n't you let hit be known before, so Hi could pervide refreshments suitable for such a guest?"

"I 'll be up there in a minute," answered Bekowsky, flourishing his stick.

"Hi can 'ardly wait so long. Har you a-going to bring your missus?" inquired Buster, quite unintimidated. "Hi understands that common report says she is the best fighter in the family. Did she lick you last night, Hikey?"

This last was too much to be endured, so with another volley of oaths, the infuriated peddler took a firm grip on the rattan and entered the hall, the door of which stood invitingly open. The rabble assembled in front of the house gave a cheer and waited eagerly for developments. Meanwhile Buster continued to survey the crowd below with a critical glance, quite oblivious to the danger brought near by the approach of the peddler. A minute passed and then another, but the boy was still looking out the window, so it was evident that Bekowsky had not yet reached the garret. The crowd began to get uneasy.

"Were the 'ell is the bloomin' ragbag gone ter?" asked one seedy individual. "Don't 'e know 'ee 's keeping us gents waiting?"

"Don't get himpatient, friends," advised Buster. "Bekowsky 's lost 'is wind and the 'all is so dark he can't see fer to find hit. Hi 'll send 'im a bit o' candle in a minute to 'elp 'im."

"He has fell and busted his neck, maybe," suggested a butcher's apprentice, in a tone that seemed to indicate he would not regard such a happening entirely in the light of a calamity.

"Perhaps 'is 'art 'as been touched hand 'ee can't bear to lay 'is 'and in hanger on a poor horphing like me," said Buster, almost tearful at the thought of such tenderness. "Perhaps 'ee 'as a noble nature hin spite o' that 'orrible phisomy."

"What d' ye's mane by congregating in front of me door like this?" cried a harsh voice, flavored by a rich Milesian accent.

"Hit's Mrs. Malone," exclaimed Buster. "Hi'me that glad to lay heyes hon 'er. Come pertect me, Mrs. Malone."

A burly Irishwoman, dressed in her best bib and tucker, as becomes a lady out making a few neighborly calls, elbowed her way through the crowd, sternly exhorting them to disperse.

"Oh, it's you, you satan?" she remarked wrathfully, gazing up at the freckled countenance of the lad. "Wot shenanigans have you been up to now?"

"Hi can't discuss my bizness hin front of a vulgar mob," responded Buster, loftily. "Hif you 'll come hup, Mrs. Malone, Hi 'll be pleased to hinform you. Hotherwise Hi 'll be forced to maintain an 'aughty silence."

"Oh, I 'll come up alright," declared Mrs. Malone, bent on getting to the bottom of the trouble at once.

"Hi 'opes so," replied Buster, doubtfully. "Shall Hi come to meet you?"

"Never mind."

"Hi don't mind, Mrs. Malone."

Mrs. Malone vanished in the hall and proceeded upstairs at so rapid a gait that she failed to perceive on the dimly lighted stairway the figure of Bekowsky, who had been brought to a standstill by the sudden appearance of Lord Castlereagh in fighting array at the head of the stairs. The dog so strongly resented any movement, whether up or down, on the part of the old-clothesman, that that individual had remained stationary, not daring to stir a foot in either direction until Mrs. Malone collided with him, forcing him to advance upward on his hands and knees several steps, a performance that brought Lord Castlereagh leaping down upon him.

Bekowsky gave one yell of terror and flew down the stairs in three bounds, the dog yelping furiously at his heels, while Mrs. Malone escaped a bad fall only by hanging on to the banisters, against which she had backed herself in an effort to regain the breath rudely expelled from her lungs by the collision.

"Buster, you omadhaun, what devil's work is this?" gasped Mrs. Malone, as Lord Castlereagh disappeared below.

Receiving no answer, the good woman prudently decided to abandon her visit to the garret until the bulldog should have returned to his domicile, leaving the stairs free from peril, and therefore turned her steps to her own headquarters on the floor beneath.

Chapter Nine

TOM MOORE RECEIVES CALLS FROM MRS. MALONE AND MR. DYKE

Meanwhile Lord Castlereagh, having failed to overtake the terror-stricken old-clothesman before the lower door was reached, discreetly abandoned the pursuit, as experience had taught him it was not best for a bulldog to engage in public altercations when not accompanied by his master. So he came trotting upstairs, beaming with doggish good nature, the result of a gratifying realization of duty well done. As the door to the room from the window of which Buster was still surveying the rapidly diminishing throng clustered in front of the house was closed, the bulldog scratched vigorously with his claws for admittance, his request being speedily gratified, for, in spite of the old-clothesman's voluble explanations, the crowd refused to regard him as anything but a defeated contestant and, turning a deaf ear to his indignation, quietly dispersed to their various affairs, leaving Buster a complete victor in the recent battle.

"You done noble, Lord Castlereagh," said Buster, approvingly, at the same time seating himself upon one of the rickety chairs with which the attic was furnished. The comfort of this seat was immediately increased by his tipping it back on its rear legs, balance being maintained by the elevation of his feet to the top of the table near by. This was the lad's favorite position, but his enjoyment was speedily eclipsed by disaster, as the bulldog, for the moment quite carried away with exultation at his master's unqualified commendation made a violent effort to climb up in that worthy's lap, a manoeuvre resulting in both going over backwards with a crash.

"You willain!" ejaculated the boy, in great disgust. "Wot do you think Hi am? A hacro-a-bat, or wot?"

Lord Castlereagh apologized violently with his stumpy tail and seemed quite overwhelmed with regret.

"Has you means well, Hi forgives you, sir," said the Buster, rubbing his elbow, "but don't never turn no more flipflops in partnership wid Montgomery Julien Hethelbert Spinks, Esquire, or you may hexpect your walking papers. Hunderstand?"

Then, as Buster regained his feet, he remembered his master was in the adjoining bedroom asleep.

"My heye," he muttered. "We must 'ave disturbed 'im, hand 'im so tired and discouraged, too."

He listened for a moment, then, reassured by the silence reigning in the next room, nodded his head in satisfaction.

"'Ee 's still asleep," he remarked to the dog. "Dreaming no doubt. Hof wot, Hi wonders? Publishers? Not much, or 'ee 'd be a cussin'. Hof that 'aughty dame hover at Drury Lane, who won't kiss and make hup? That's hit, I 'll bet. Well, this his n't polishin' 'is boots, his it, Pupsy?"

Seizing a brush from the table, the boy began to rub a dilapidated topboot vigorously, meanwhile humming in cheerful discord a verse of a song, as yet unknown to the general public, but destined to become a permanent favorite with all lovers of music and poetry.

"'Twas the last rose hof summer left bloomink alone."

A knock on the door interrupted his song, but before he could reply to it, in marched Mrs. Malone with arms akimbo, and a determined expression making grave a face naturally good humored.

"Oh, hit's you, his it?" said Buster, regarding the woman with disapproving eye.

"I suppose you t'ought it was the Prince of Wales," replied Mrs. Malone.

"No, Hi didn't, 'cos w'y? 'Cos 'is Royal 'Ighness never hopens the door till Hi says come hin. 'Ee 's got better manners, 'ee 'as," replied the boy.

The landlady, not at all impressed, snapped her fingers scornfully

"That for you and the prince," she said, her nose in the air.

"Mrs. Malone, you 're a hanarchist," declared Buster, shocked beyond expression.

"Mr. Buster, you 're a liar," replied the landlady, promptly.

"You 're no judge, Mrs. Malone. We honly puts hup with hanarchy from Mr. Dyke, the poet, who comes 'ere and reads 'is treason reeking verses to Mr. Moore. One hanarchist on hour calling list is enough."

"You call me that name again, and I 'll smack you," exclaimed Mrs. Malone, pugnaciously.

"Smack me!" echoed Buster, in trepidation. "Hif you kisses me, Mrs. Malone, Hi 'll scream."

"Kiss you, indeed!" snorted the landlady, scornfully.

"Don't you dare," warned Buster, getting behind a table for greater safety.

"Is your good-for-nothing master in?"

"Hi am not hacquainted with no such hindividual. Hif you means Mr. Moore, 'ee 's hout."

Mrs. Malone looked her disbelief, and pointed grimly to the boots, which Buster had dropped upon the table.

"Oh," said Buster, a trifle dashed, but rallying immediately, "these is souvenirs of the great poet. This goes to 'is Reverence the Harchbishop of Canterbury to be used as a snuff box, and this his to stand on the dressing-table of Mrs. Fitz'erbert 'erself. She will put 'er combings hinto it."

"Thot jezebel?" ejaculated the woman, with a sniff of disdain.

"But Mrs. Fitz'erbert does n't 'ail from Jersey," corrected Buster. "She 's from Wicklow, Hireland."

"She 's not," cried Mrs. Malone in a high dudgeon. "We don't raise her kind there. Only dacent people like me comes from the Vale of Avoca."

Buster looked interested.

"Say, tell us, his there hany more like you there?" he asked anxiously.

"There is," replied Mrs. Malone, proudly, "but none betther."

"Hit's a good thing Hireland is so far horf, is n't it?" said the boy in a tone of cordial congratulation.

Mrs. Malone threw a boot at him by way of answer, but, instead of striking Buster, it flew through the entrance to the adjoining room and was heard to strike noisily on the head board of the bed.

"Oh--h--h!" came from within.

"There, you 'as done it, Mrs. Malone," said the boy reproachfully.

"Hullo, there," said the voice, sleepily. "Much obliged, I am sure. Who hit me with a boot? Eh? Buster, I 'll have your British blood to pay for it."

"If you do," responded Mrs. Malone, emphatically, "it will be the first thing you 've paid for in many a day."

"What?" said the voice. "Do I hear the dulcet tones of my lovely landlady?"

Mrs. Malone gave a sniff of concentrated scorn.

"Niver mind your blarney, Tom Moore," said she. "Where is the rint?"

"What would I be doing with it?" came from behind the curtain.

"I knows," replied Mrs. Malone, indignantly. "You would be sending flowers to some actress at the theayter over on Drury Lane, instead of paying me. Thot's what you 'd be doing, young sir."

"You 've guessed it the first time," admitted Moore, "and that is all the good it would do me. She won't look at me, Mrs. Malone."

"Small blame to her since that shows she 's a dacint, sensible colleen," replied the landlady, in tones of conviction, as her lodger drew aside the curtains of the doorway, and stepped out into the room.

Tom Moore it was, but such a different youth from the one who in Ireland had pestered the little school-mistress with his loving attentions. Trouble and privation had thinned and hollowed his jolly face; lines of worry and disappointment were crossed round his eyes. His mouth was as sweet and tender as of yore, but the impertinent nose stood forth much more sharply. He looked ten years older, but the same winning smile played around his lips, and in its light the shadows of want and hopelessness vanished from his face like fog 'neath the warming touch of sunbeams. He was only half dressed, the absence of coat, vest, and stock being concealed beneath the enveloping folds of an old brocade dressing-gown, which undoubtedly had once been a magnificent affair, but now was only too much in harmony with the surrounding squalor.

"Sweet Mistress Malone, with your eyes deep and blue,

Don't ask me for rent, for I 'm telling you true,

'T would make me a bankrupt if I should pay you,

So let the rent slide like a darling,--Now do."

As Moore extemporized he laid his hand insinuatingly upon the landlady's muscular arm, but she threw it off roughly as he finished.

"You can't plaster me, Tom Moore," she declared, loudly.

Buster and Lord Castlereagh retired to a safe distance and watched proceedings with eager eyes.

"Plaster you?" repeated Moore, meditatively, then suddenly laying hands upon her, he twirled the old lady gently around. "Why should I plaster you when nature has covered your laths so nicely?"

"Don't touch me, you young divil," Mrs. Malone ejaculated. "How dare you take such liberties?"

"Mine is only a friendly interest," protested Moore.

"I wants no impudence."

"Who said you were wanting in impudence?" demanded Moore. "Tell me the wretch's name, and I 'll attend to his business."

"Nivir mind," replied the landlady, picking up the mate to the boot she had hurled at Buster. "It's high time you had new boots. I 'll have no tramps or ragbags lodging here."

"Mrs. Malone," said Moore, cheerfully, "I quite agree with you. I am pleased to say I shall have a new pair to-day."

"You will, will you?" retorted the old woman. "We hear ducks."

"I don't hear either ducks or geese. Do you, Buster?"

"Hi 'ears Mrs. Malone, sir," replied the lad, stepping behind the bulldog for safety's sake.

"The mistake is natural," answered Moore. "You were saying--?"

"There is not a shoemaker in London who would trust you, Tom Moore, nor any other tradesman," said Mrs. Malone, on whom the foregoing piece of impudence was quite thrown away.

"Nevertheless, I 'll bet you the back rent--the all the way back rent, Mrs. Malone--I have a grand new pair to-day," declared Moore, defiantly. "Am I right, Buster?"

"Yessir, that we will," asserted that staunch ally.

"Niver mind thot," replied the landlady, extending her palm. "Misther Moore, I 'll thank you for the rint."

Moore took her hand and pressed it warmly.

"No thanks are necessary," he said briskly, "since I have n't it."

The old woman snatched her fingers away with a vigor that nearly upset her lodger.

"I 'll have thot rint," she exclaimed.

"I sincerely hope so, Mrs. Malone, though how you 'll get it I can't see."

"I'll make you see."

"That is very accommodating, I am sure."

"You must raise it, Misther Moore, or I 'll have to have me attic."

Moore looked at her admiringly.

"Ah, Mrs. Malone, surely such a face never went with any but a kind heart," he said gently.

"Thot 'll do you, young sir," replied the landlady, quite unimpressed.

"Ah!" continued the poet, with a sigh. "You are not true Irish, Mrs. Malone."

"You know betther, Tom Moore. Was n't it my old man, God rest his good soul in peace, that taught you your A-B-C's in Ireland? Yes it was, and many 's the time he said to me, 'Thot bye would blarny the horns off a cow's forehead if he cud spake her language.'"

"Oh! those were the good old days!" began the poet, hoping to touch a sentimental spot in the old lady's memory.

"Yis, I know all thot," she interrupted. "You almost worried the poor man to death."

"Well," said Moore, half seriously, "you are getting even with me now, are n't you?"

"Niver mind thot. If you don't pay me, out you walk this day, me bucko."

"Won't you let me run if I prefer it?"

"No impudence! When will you pay me?"

Moore turned to Buster, interrogatively.

"When, my lad, will it be most convenient for us to pay Mrs. Malone?" he asked, gravely.

Buster scratched his head and pondered, but no answer was forthcoming, so Moore decided to depend upon his own resources for a satisfactory reply.

"After I am dressed," said he. "Come back in half an hour when I am dressed and I 'll pay you."

"Very well, then," replied Mrs. Malone, "I 'll come up again in half an hour by the clock. And no tricks. I 'm watching the hall, so you can't get away. Do you hear? I'm watching the hall."

Moore nodded his head approvingly.

"Quite right, Mrs. Malone," said he. "It's nice to know there is no danger of the hall being stolen. Sure, what would we do without it?"

"Bah!" exclaimed the landlady, and with her head held scornfully high, she marched out, slamming the door by way of rebuke to the levity of her lodger.

"My heye!" exclaimed Buster, breathing more freely. "She 's more wicious than usual to-day, Mr. Moore."

"I know, lad, but we can't blame her," replied the poet. "She is a good old soul, and, as she says, it was her husband who first whacked knowledge into me."

"Hi suppose 'ee were a fine scholard."

"Well," said Moore, "he was all right when he was sober, but he was never sober that I remember. He was always in high spirits as a result of the spirits being high in him. However, that has nothing to do with the rent. Is the ladder that leads to the roof of the house next door out the window?"

"Yessir," said Buster. "You can go hout the same way you did yesterday."

"Good," said Moore, "then I won't have to disturb Mrs. Malone's watch on the hall."

"No, sir, that you won't."

Moore looked at the boy gravely and got a smile in return which in extent could compare not unfavorably with one of Lord Castlereagh's most expansive yawns.

"Buster," said the poet, slowly and sadly, "there is something I feel it my duty to say to you. Let us be in sober earnest for once, my lad."

"Yes, sir," assented the boy uneasily, stooping to pull the bulldog's ragged ear. "Hat your service, Mr. Moore."

Moore was silent for a moment, and when he did speak it was with an effort quite apparent.

"Buster," he said, softly, "it is time we came to an understanding. I am head over ears in debt as you know. I owe every tradesman in the neighborhood, and as many out of it as I could get introduced to. I am a failure as a writer, bitter as it is for me to acknowledge it. Only a little while longer, and it will be the streets and starvation, Buster."

"Don't, sir, don't," said the boy, a queer little break in his voice, but Moore continued:

"I 'm wronging you in keeping you with me, laddie. Don't waste any more of your time with me. I am only holding you back."

"Hand if Hi went, sir," asked the boy, pitifully, "wot would become hof you?"

"I?" murmured Moore, choking back a sob. "There is n't much doubt, is there?"

"Who 'd black your boots for you, hand 'eat your shaving water, hand listen to your poetry, sir?" demanded Buster, wiping his eyes with his shirt sleeve. "Blow me hif I 'ave n't a cold in me 'ead. My heyes is runnin' somethink hawful hall day."

"It's best for you, Buster," insisted Moore, laying his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder.

"Hit ain't hanythink o' the kind, hand I won't go, sir," declared Buster in an apologetically defiant tone. "No, sir, Hi won't go."

"You won't, Buster?"

"Wot would that young lady hover at Drury Lane think o' me, hif I left you halone?"

Moore sighed at the thought of her.

"She would n't care, Buster," he murmured.

"Wouldn't she? Then she 'as an 'eart of hice, that's wot she 'as, sir, wid hall the beautiful pomes we 'ave sent 'er."

"But you are getting no wages, Buster," protested Moore.

"Well, sir," the boy answered, "Hi 'as a situation, Hi 'as. That's more 'n you 'as, his n't it?"

His voice died away in a snuffle, and he clutched his master by the arm appealingly.

"You won't send me away?" he asked, piteously. "You won't, will you, Mr. Moore."

Moore, touched to the heart at the lad's generous devotion, felt the tears gathering in his eyes, but forced them back with an effort, though his voice shook as he answered:

"My dear, brave, little fellow, how can I doubt Providence when there is one such loyal heart near me? Stay, Buster. We will rise or fall together."

As he spoke he held his hand out to the boy, who took it joyfully.

"Yessir, that we will, sir. You hand me, hand Lord Castlereagh."

The bulldog, as though understanding the situation, thrust his cold nose in Moore's hand, and wagged his tail sympathetically as the poet crossed to the fireplace after patting the ugly head, rough with the scars of years of battling.

"Buster," continued Moore, without turning round.

"Yessir?"

"May God bless you, lad," said the poet, bowing his head on the mantelpiece to hide the tears that would come in spite of him.

"Thank you, sir."

Then as Moore dropped into the old arm-chair beside the hearth, the boy, resolved to wake him from his unhappy mood, burst into song, rendering one of his master's most recent productions in a style worthy of a scissor-grinding machine.

"Horf in the stilly night

H'ere slumber's chains 'as bound me,

The shadows hof hother days

Comes a-gathering round me."

Moore, roused to mental activity by the racket, sat bolt upright in dismay.

"Buster!" he cried, reprovingly, but the boy continued at the top of his lungs as though he had not heard.

"The smiles, the tears,

Hof boyish years--"

Bang! came a book against the door from across the room, missing Buster, who had dodged, by a few inches.

"For Heaven's sake stop that caterwauling," cried Moore. "You put my teeth on edge."

Lord Castlereagh became victim of a hallucination that the book thrown by Moore was a rat of large size, and was fast shaking the life out of it when Buster descended upon him and effected a rescue.

"Blow me, Lord Castlereagh, if you hain't a knocking the stuffin' hout of 'The Rivals,'" he remarked reprovingly.

"Out of the rivals?" said Moore, with a laugh. "Faith, I 'd like to try the same game on mine, Buster. It's the simplest way, after all; isn't it, doggie?"

Lord Castlereagh became quite giddy, and, possessed by a puppyish fancy, decided upon an immediate and vigorous pursuit of his stumpy tail as the proceeding next in order, prosecuting his endeavor with such enthusiasm that he collided violently with everything in the room, including Moore and Buster, in the space of a moment, abandoning his enterprise only when winded as a result of running broadside on against a wall.

"Will you heat your dinner now, sir?" asked Buster.

"Dinner? What have you?"

"Leaving hout the rest of the bill of fare, there 's a slice hof 'am hand 'arf a loaf of bread, hand a little hof that Hirish wisky your sister sent you from Hireland fer your birthday."

Rummaging in the cupboard, Buster speedily brought to light the little stone jug containing what was left of the girl's gift, and as Moore seated himself at the table, which also served as desk when needed, the boy placed the whisky before him.

"Ah!" said the poet, his eyes glistening as he uncorked it. "That's the real old stuff. That's what puts the life into a man, eh, lad?"

As he spoke, Moore held up the jug, and shutting an eye endeavored to peer into it.

"There is n't much life left in it, Buster."

Then, taking a whiff, the poet smacked his lips, but placed the jug upon the table, its contents untouched.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "it is too precious to waste. I must save that, laddie."

"Yessir," said Buster, "fer some joyous hoccasion. 'Ave hanother smell, sir?"

"No, no," exclaimed Moore, waving the boy away. "Get thee behind me, Satan. Don't tempt me, Buster, for I am not over strong in that direction. Cork it up tightly. They say it evaporates and it's too good to have even a drop wasted."

Buster stowed the little jug in the depths of the cupboard and returned briskly to where Moore was eating his dinner.

"Hi 've seen the shoemakers, sir," he announced.

"Ah, did you?"

"Yessir. The boots is hall done hand ready to be delivered."

"Good enough," commented Moore. "Did you appoint a time for them to come?"

"Hi did that, sir. One will be 'ere at four, the hother at twenty minutes past the hower," replied the youth, shaking his finger warningly at Lord Castlereagh, who manifested more interest in the eatables than was in strict accordance with good manners.

"First rate, Buster," said Moore, approvingly. "Is there any other news?"

The boy hesitated a moment, but with an effort continued:

"Yessir, that ain't hall. Hi 'as a confession to make, sir."

"You have?" said Moore in a surprised tone. "Well, let's have it, my lad."

"Yessir--"

"One moment, Buster," exclaimed the poet, an expression of alarm coming over his face. "One moment in which to compose myself. Now I am calmer. Tell me, Buster, tell me you have n't secretly married Mrs. Malone?"

"Married 'ell!" exclaimed the lad, his nose turning up in disdain at the idea.

"'T would be much the same thing, I 'm thinking," chuckled Moore. "Well, that is one peril escaped. Go on with your confession."

"You know that pome you sent me with to the Times, sir?" began Buster, still ill at ease.

"'The Last Rose of Summer,' wasn't it?"

"Yessir. Hi did n't take it to the Times."

"You did n't? Why not, Buster?"

"Hit was this way, sir, just 'as Hi wuz a coming by Carlton 'Ouse, who should Hi see stepping hout 'er carriage but Mrs. Fitz'erbert 'erself, looking that sweet and beautiful has would make your mouth water."

"So there is a woman in it, after all?" observed Moore. "'T was ever thus, Buster."

"Yessir, so wot does Hi do but rip horf the wrapper hand run hup to 'er with the poem, hand sticks hit into 'er 'and. 'That's for you,' ses Hi, hand tips me 'at hand is horf through the crowd like a hantelope."

"Nicely done, Buster," said Moore. "It may come in handy for her ladyship. She can make curlpapers of it. Well, you are forgiven, my boy."

"Thank you, sir," said Buster, greatly relieved.

"Was my name signed?"

"Yessir, hand your haddress too."

"Very good, Buster. Perhaps she 'll come to call and bring the Prince of Wales with her."

"Well, sir," replied Buster, "hit's my hopinion has 'ow neither hov 'em is one bit too good for hus."

"That sounds like treason, Buster."

"Does it, sir?" cried Buster, apparently delighted to hear it.

A knock at the door disturbed both servant and master, as well as arousing suspicions of the worst nature in the bosom of Lord Castlereagh, who growled ominously.

"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Moore, rising hurriedly from the table, which was saved from an upset by the quick hand of Buster. "Is it the rent again?"

Buster tiptoed to the door as the knock was repeated, and whispered, after listening:

"Hit's all right, sir. Who is it?"

"It's Mr. Dyke," declared the person desirous of entering.

Moore's face fell.

"With another treasonable poem, I suppose," he muttered. "Worse luck."

"Wot does you listen to 'em for?" asked Buster, disgustedly, leaving the door as Moore crossed to open it.

"Ah, that is the question," said the poet, softly.

"Hi knows," remarked Buster under his breath. "'Cos 'ee 's 'er father, that's why."

"Come in, Mr. Dyke," said Moore, opening the door. "How are you to-day, sir?"

"Oh, very well, Thomas," replied the old gentleman, entering with a self-satisfied air. "How do you, my boy?"

Mr. Dyke's dress showed that he was enjoying prosperity. His coat and hat had hardly lost their appearance of newness, while the rest of his costume, though evidently not of recent purchase, was of good quality, greatly exceeding in costliness the apparel in which he was wont to garb himself in Ireland.

"I have nothing to complain of so far as health is concerned, Mr. Dyke. Buster, a chair for the gentleman."

"I have come to read you a poem, Thomas."

"Indeed?" said Moore. "Buster, two chairs for the gentleman."

"You will have your joke, Thomas," observed Mr. Dyke, with an indulgent smile, as he seated himself.

"I have n't much else, sir," said Moore, "that's why I value it so highly. How is Bessie, sir?"

"She is well and working hard on her new part. The new piece is produced at Drury Lane in a week."

"I know," said Moore. "Bessie is getting on, is n't she?"

"Indeed she is, Thomas," replied Mr. Dyke, proudly. "The manager says if she does as well as he expects in the next piece, he will allow her to play Lydia in a revival of Mr. Sheridan's great comedy, 'The Rivals.'"

"So they revive Dicky's play? They do well, for they have had nothing since to equal it except 'The School for Scandal.'"

The old gentleman cleared his throat modestly.

"Quite true, Thomas, and for that very reason I am preparing to write a comedy myself."

"Bravo, sir. Surely it is a shame only one Irishman should wear laurels for play-writing."

"Do you know Mr. Sheridan, Thomas?"

"Not I, sir, though both of us received our education at the same school some thirty years apart. Dr. Whyte taught us both, and admits even now that he considered Sheridan but little better than a dunce."

"So I have heard Mr. Sheridan himself declare," observed Mr. Dyke. "A great man, Thomas, a great man."

"You know him, sir?" asked Moore, a shade of envy for a moment perceptible in his voice.

"I met him a fortnight ago at Sir Percival's house. Needless to say I was honored, Thomas."

"Quite needless, sir. Was he sober?"

"Part of the time," answered Mr. Dyke, reluctantly.

"Ah," said Moore, "that must have been early in the evening. Does Bessie know him?"

"Yes, Thomas. He was so kind as to give her his personal opinion of the airs and graces suitable as business for the character of Lydia, for he will have no one even mention the possibility of her not obtaining the part."

"Look here now," said Moore, quickly. "You just bear in mind what sort of a killer that same gay old lad is with the ladies. I 'll not have him making love to Bessie, if I have to tell him so on the street. He is an old rake, sir, and there is no more dangerous man in London, for all his years."

"Tut, tut, Thomas," said Mr. Dyke in benign reproof. "Mr. Sheridan is a married man."

"I know," replied Moore, doubtfully, "but I have often heard that they are the worst kind. By the way, how is that distinguished philanthropist, Sir Percival Lovelace?"

"You must not sneer at him, Thomas. Bessie and I owe everything to him."

"Never fear. He expects to be paid one way or another," growled Moore, full of suspicions but absolutely lacking in proof.

"Thanks to his influence, my verses are much in demand. No doubt you have seen a number of them published?"

"I have that, and read them eagerly. Ah, you too are getting up in the world, Mr. Dyke."

"I flatter myself it is so," replied the old gentleman pompously. "Shall I speak a word to Sir Percival in your favor, Thomas? He could help you much, being, as you know, an intimate friend of the Prince himself."

"Thank you, no," answered Moore, savagely. "I 'll get where I aim without his assistance or rot where I am contentedly. You don't see Sir Percival as I do, sir."

"Evidently not," replied Mr. Dyke, blandly. "I find in him a firm and powerful friend, who has exerted himself much in my behalf, while you regard him as--"

"My view of him is n't fit for such lips as yours, Mr. Dyke," interrupted Moore. "We will say no more about him. I only hope you may be correct in your opinion of the gentleman."

"Have you heard the news from home?" asked Mr. Dyke, polishing his glasses, preparatory to unrolling the manuscript, which he had placed upon the table between them.

"Not I, sir. It's a fortnight since I have heard from my mother, though I write to her twice a week. Father is ailing, no doubt. He is getting on in years, you know. But then their news is only of Dublin. I have heard nothing from Dalky at all."

"Winnie Farrell was married to Captain Arbuckle last Wednesday week."

Moore gave a start.

"You don't say so, sir? Are you sure?"

"Sure as man can be. They are off on their honeymooning now. I had a letter from Squire Farrell himself. By the way, Terence has come to London and is studying law."

"I hope the rascal will keep out of my way," said Moore, viciously. "A sneak, if ever there was one."

"You quarrelled with him, Thomas?"

"I did, sir, and licked him well, too. Tell me, Mr. Dyke, is Bessie still angry with me?"

The old gentleman sighed and put on his glasses.

"I am afraid so, Thomas," he said, gravely. "She never mentions your name, though I do my best to interest her in your doings. Now for the poem, lad. It is a satire, Thomas, a satire on the Prince of Wales. Oh, I cook him to a turn, Thomas. Ah, how he would squirm if I dared to have it published."

Moore leaned over the table and took the manuscript from his guest in a manner more vigorous than polite.

"If you did have it published, you 'd be dropped by society like a hot potato, and Bessie would lose her position at Drury Lane," he said. "You would be in a nice fix then, would n't you, Robin Dyke, Esquire?"

"If worst came to worst, even then I would still have the pension guaranteed me by Sir Percival," replied the elder poet, obstinately.

"You would," assented Moore, emphatically, "for about five minutes. Mr. Dyke, Irishman and patriot that you are, you do wrong every time you write a line that compromises your position here in London. Thanks to the efforts of Sir Percival, you have been nicely received; your verses are purchased and printed; success such as you have never known before is yours, and yet in spite of all this that old taint in you leads you to write in secret poems which would be your ruin if they ever saw the light. Good God, sir! Have you no thought of Bessie at all? You must think of Bessie. You must."

Mr. Dyke, thus forcibly rebuked, grew red in the face, and seemed for a moment about to hotly point out the disregard paid by his young friend to the difference in their ages, but his better nature prevailed as his sense of justice showed him plainly that Moore was in the right; so, after a short silence, he accepted his host's criticism in the same spirit it was offered.

"You are right, Thomas," said he, reluctantly, "quite right, my lad; but remember that I never read such verses to any one but you. I must admit I thoroughly enjoy giving occasional vent to my real feelings. It's like throwing a load off my heart, Thomas."

"I know how you feel," replied Moore, sagely, "but take my advice, and throw off no more loads that way."

"Thomas, I won't. I promise I 'll not write another."

"Good, Mr. Dyke," exclaimed Moore, gladly. "It is delighted I am to hear you say that. Ah, sir, if I were where you are, I 'd run no such danger, I can tell you."

"Shall I read it to you, Thomas?" asked the old gentleman, resolved to extract all possible enjoyment from this bit of treason, since it was to have no successor.

"Leave it with me," suggested Moore, endeavoring to postpone its perusal to the last moment possible. "I 'll read it to myself and study your method thoroughly. It will be a greater help to me that way, you know, and I am anxious to learn, sir."

Dyke gave a flattered cough or two and rose to go.

"You must not be discouraged, Thomas," he said in a kindly patronizing tone, "your verses have merit, real merit. I 'll stake my reputation upon it."

"It's kind of you to say that," said Moore, gratefully, though in secret vastly amused, "a successful man like you."

"Oh, I mean it, Thomas, I mean it. Why, some day I 'd not be surprised if you were rated as a poet almost as high as Robin Dyke."

"You don't mean it, sir?"

"Almost, I said almost," repeated the old gentleman, fearful lest he had raised hope too high in his fellow author's breast.

"I heard you," said Moore, dryly, while Buster and Lord Castlereagh shared their indignation at the fireplace to which they had retired.

"I must get along now," announced Mr. Dyke, as though desirous of gently breaking the news of his approaching departure. "Oh, you will laugh your sides sore when you read that poem, Thomas."

"Will I?" asked Moore, doubtfully.

Mr. Dyke turned at the door with a chuckle.

"I almost envy you the fun, my lad. Oh, it's monstrous witty."

And fairly shaking with merriment at the mental contemplation of his own humor, the old gentleman toddled down the stairs, quite at peace with the world at large and even more satisfied with himself.

"My best love to Bessie," Moore called after him, leaning over the banisters.

"Have you the rint?" came from below in the unmistakably Hibernian accents of Mrs. Malone.

"No, I have n't, have you?" shouted the disgusted poet, and hastening back into the room, he shut the door.

"Rank halmost as 'igh as 'im," exclaimed Buster, indignantly. "Well Hi likes 'is himpudence. Say, Mr. Moore, Hi thinks that hold cove is daffy."

"They say genius is akin to madness," replied Moore, stowing the poem away in the drawer of the table, where he kept many productions of his own.

"Then 'ee 's been achin' a long time," replied the boy, misunderstanding the meaning of his master's remark.

Moore laughed gently and did not correct him.

Chapter Ten

IN WHICH THE LANDLADY IS PLAYED A TRICK

In the meantime Mrs. Malone, having pounded upstairs, halted in front of the door, not from politeness, but to regain her breath. Having paused, she decided to knock, unconsciously mindful of Buster's scathing rebuke.

"Who is there?" asked Buster.

"Me, for me money," responded the landlady, determinedly. "Is there any sin in asking for what is due me?"

"As much sin as there is use," muttered Moore. "I can't go over the roof like this, Buster. I have it. Tell her I am taking a bath."

"Yessir," said the boy, starting towards the door as Moore sought shelter with pail and pitcher of water behind an old screen standing in the corner of the room.

"My cold bath, Buster," whispered Moore.

"Yessir."

"And, Buster?"

"Yessir."

"You get out when she comes in."

"Hi will, sir," responded Buster preparing to open the door.

"Am I to die of old age in my own hall?" demanded Mrs. Malone, waxing indignant.

"You 'as your choice hof complaints, madam," replied Buster, opening the door.

"You limb!" said she, misunderstanding the lad's unusual politeness. "I 'll not have any half-baked omadhaun cursing me."

"Curse you, Mrs. Malone? Himpossible, hon my word of honer. W'y Hi 'as narthin but blessin's fer you, sweetheart."

Mrs. Malone aimed a blow at Buster's ear, and, as he dodged successfully, swung half around with the misspent energy of her effort. Buster sought safety in the hall, but thrust his head in the doorway.

"Mr. Moore his taking 'is cold bawth," he announced, loudly.

A splashing of water coming from behind the screen corroborated the lad's statement.

"Taking his bath, is he?" said Mrs. Malone. "It's the only thing he can take widout getting arresthed."

"Hit's 'is hown, Mrs. Malone."

"Are you sure of thot?"

"W'y h'are you so suspicious, Mrs. Malone? 'Ave you missed one?"

"Niver you mind prying into the secrets of me toilet. I 'll have you to understand--"

At this moment a ragged towel, soaking wet as the result of its immersion in the pail, sailed over the top of the screen and landed with a gurgling squash, fair and square on the back of the landlady's neck, dampening her collar and best cap so thoroughly that the starched linen immediately subsided into floppy limpness.

"Merciful powers!" ejaculated Mrs. Malone, jumping a foot at least. "Phwat 's thot?"

Buster fled downstairs fearful of impending massacre, while Moore behind the screen began giving an imitation of a man in the throes of an ice-cold bath, bursting into musicless song punctuated with exclamations of discomfort and shivery comments on his condition.

"She is far from the land,"

he shouted, slopping the water from pitcher to pail and back again, adding sotto voce, "But not from the landlady, worse luck--Oh! I 'll die of the cold! I know I will. Oh, mother, it's a cake of ice your beloved Thomas is fast becoming.

"Where her young hero sleeps,

--Only her young hero is freezing instead of sleeping. Help! Help! Whew-w-w! Murder, murder, I 'm dying of the chill!"

Mrs. Malone in speechless rage had unwound the wet towel from around her neck.

"You divil!" she remarked, with the calmness of despair. "You red-handed rapscallion. You 've spiled me best Sunday Get-Up-and-Go-to-Early-Morning-Mass-Cap. Oh, you haythen!--you turk! Hanging is too good for the likes of you."

Moore, bawling and singing at the top of his lungs, heard nothing of the landlady's desperation.

"And lovers around her are sighing,

But coldly she turns--

Faith, the dear girl must have been taking a cold bath herself, I 'm thinking. Oh, murder! No! For, if that were so, how could the lovers be around her? No, indeed, no lady decent enough for Tom Moore to immortalize in song would be guilty of such immodesty, I am sure.

"But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.

A beautiful sentiment, Mr. Moore."

"Oh, where is that soap?" and then again bursting into song, he warbled:

"Where is that soap?

Where is that soap?

Oh, where in Blazes is that so-o-o-ap?

Buster, you devil, bring me the soap."

"I 'll do nuthing of the kind," replied Mrs. Malone, ferociously.

"You won't?"

"Not I."

"In half a jiffy I 'll come out there and give you the leathering you deserve for insubordination."

"Oh!" cried the landlady. "And me here, Bridget Malone."

"What?" exclaimed Moore, as though suspecting her presence for the first time. "Are you there, Mrs. Malone? Whew! but this water is cold."

His head, with hair, wet and tousled, sticking up every which way, appeared above the top of the screen, being elevated just enough to keep his shirt band out of sight, thus preventing the betrayal of his subterfuge to the landlady.

"How do you do, Mrs. Malone?" said he, courteously.

"I 'm sopping wet, thanks to you."

"So am I, Mrs. Malone. We are twins in that respect. Me teeth are chattering as you can see-e-e-e!"

"I 'll have thot rint now, you blaggard."

"Shall I come and give it to you, Mrs. Malone? Oh, Lord, it is freezing to death I am."

"I hope you are; when you die you 'll git a change," answered Mrs. Malone, sitting down by the table, decisively.

"Are you going to stay?" asked Moore.

"I 'll sit right here till I git me rint, Tom Moore."

"You will, eh?"

"Thot I will, you water t'rowing spalpeen."

"I said come back when I am dressed, did n't I? Well, I 'm not dressed, am I?"

"How should I know?" observed Mrs. Malone, loudly, meanwhile mopping her neck with her handkerchief.

"Well," responded the poet, "you will know, if you don't get out of here mighty quick, I can tell you. I 'll not be turned into a lump of ice for any old lady, Irish or no Irish. Whe-ee! Oh-h-h! G-r-r-r-h! When I get into the market the price of ice will drop a penny a pound."

"I wants me rint," reiterated the landlady, quite unconcerned as to her lodger's personal temperature.

"Do you think I have it in the tub with me?" demanded Moore, growing desperate.

"I 've no doubt you have as much of it there as anywhere," replied Mrs. Malone, unconsciously hitting the nail on the head.

"I 'll give you till I count twenty to quit the premises."

"Twenty or twenty t'ousand is just the same to me, Mr. Moore."

"Then you have no head for figures, Mrs. Malone?"

"Not I, Tom Moore."

"Well, there is one figure you 'll know more about if you don't skip, and that is the one of Thomas Moore, Esquire."

"If you do, I 'll have you arresthed."

"All right, Mrs. Malone. My frozen blood be upon your head. No, by St. Patrick, I 'll not ice myself even to oblige you. Out you go, my lady. One--two--three. Will you go?"

"Not I, sorr!"

"Eight--nine--ten-- Are you going?"

"Divil a fut will I."

"Twelve--thirteen--sixteen-- Now are you ready?"

"I 'm not, sorr."

"Eighteen--nineteen--!"

"Oh-h!" cried Mrs. Malone, intimidated at last by the poet's determination, "I will, Misther Moore, I will."

And gathering up her skirts she rushed for the door, reaching it just as Buster entered, the collision sending that young gentleman sprawling on the floor.

"Thank ye very kindly, ma'am," he remarked, saluting her in military fashion from his lowered altitude.

"Thot for your t'anks," she sniffed, and made her exit, signifying her scorn and dissatisfaction by the vigor with which she shut the door.

Moore emerged from behind the screen with a sigh of relief.

"Oh, Buster, my boy," he said breathlessly, "there is nothing like cold water for starting the circulation. What would I do without my tubbing?"

"She 'll be back hagain, sir," said Buster, sighing at the thought. "Hi wish 'er hold man was halive. 'Ee would n't be so 'ard hon us, would 'ee?"

"Well, I am not so sure about that," answered Moore. "He was very fond of the bottle, was Mr. Malone. Usually he 'd not get up till noon, leaving us to fight and play around the schoolroom till he got over the effects of the night before. Then he 'd wallop the lot of us for waking him up so early."

"Was she fond of 'im?"

"She was, Buster! Much more, probably, than she would have been if he had been a better husband."

"Just himagine Bridget Malone a-courtin'. D'ye suppose has 'ow the hold gal remembers it, sir?"

"I would n't be surprised, Buster. Such memories grow dearer as old age approaches. By the Saints, lad, you 've given me an idea!"

"'As I?" said the boy in surprise. "Hi didn't know has I 'ad one."

"You have fixed it so I can stand her off for the rent or my name is not Thomas Moore," answered the poet cheerfully. "We 'll not have to move this day, Buster."

"Ho, that's fine, sir. Me and Lord Castlereagh 'ates moving. Does n't we, pup?"

The bulldog barked exultantly catching the key of hope from his master's voice.

"Hof corse," said Buster, "when worst comes to worst we can keep the place by setting Lord Castlereagh to watch the stairs. No landlady hor bailiff wud hever git by 'im, sir."

"That would be what is known as a dogged resistance of authority," said Moore, chuckling at his bad joke. "We must n't come to that, lad."

"Hall right, sir, we won't."

Moore returned to his temporarily abandoned repast and speedily ate his fill, Buster and the dog sharing alike in the debris, which was more than enough to afford satisfaction to them both.

"Now, I 'll try to work," said Moore, arming himself with a huge quill, the feathered end of which being well chewed, seemed indicative of having furnished food for reflection to its owner in the immediate past. He sat down at the table, scrupulously cleaned and dusted by Buster after he had removed the dishes, and, drawing a blank sheet of paper towards him, dipped the pen in the ink, preparatory to calling upon his inspiration. But that was as far as he got, for the desired idea failed to materialize.

"Hang it!" he said, throwing down the pen in disgust, "I can't write a line. How can I expect to when nothing is in my mind but Bessie? Ah, Bessie, Bessie, you 've taken my heart; now you rob me of my fancy. It will be my life next, if I 'm not careful."

"Can't you think hof nothin', Mr. Moore?" asked Buster, anxiously.

"I 'm thinking of the greatest thing in the world, lad."

"Ho, Hi knows wot that is: love."

"Do you think so, Buster?"

"No, sir, but you does. W'y, sir, gals gives me pains. Hi would n't swap one paw of Lord Castlereagh for the 'ole sex. Wot good is they? They can't fight--"

"It is evident, Buster, that you have never been married," interrupted Moore. "However, continue with your oration. I am interested."

"His yer?" said Buster, much delighted. "Well that his fine. Hi 'll continyer. They can't fight, that is not with their fisties, hat least not hin accordance with the rules o' the ring. They is timid, hand selfish! My Lord, hain't they selfish! Halways thinking about 'ow they look; hand eating!--W'y, sir, a girl is nine-tenths happetite and the rest 'unger. Clothes and vittles his all they thinks is worth while, hand the devotion hand effort to please with wich we honors them hain't naught but about 'arf wot they thinks they deserves. A gal, sir, thinks has 'ow she does the earth a service, w'en she puts 'er footsy down hupon it. 'Arf of 'em himagines they consecrates the ground they walk on. Hexcuse me w'en it comes to gals. Hi could n't 'ave 'em squallin' and complainin' hany where Hi 'm at. Hand then, sir, they is sich fearsome liars. They never 'ad no hintroduction to truth, sir. W'y they can honly tell it w'en they 'ears it, hand w'en they repeats it they halways dresses it hup with himaginations like they 'd pile fancy clothes hon their hown hanatomy previous to hattending some bloomin' masquerade. Facts halways assumes a disguise hafter a hincounter wid females. Believe 'em we could n't and we would n't, would we, doggie?"

"Woof!" remarked Lord Castlereagh, playfully nipping at Buster's shoestring.

"Quite right, pupsy, you halways agrees with me; there, sir, that's one thing a wife won't do, his n't it?"

"I wish I could forswear dependence as you have done, Buster," said Moore with a sigh, "but it's no use. I have n't the strength of mind. By the way, lad, did you sell the empty wine-bottles?"

"No, sir, but Hi'll tend to it very soon, sir. Hi'll get 'em hout right away," replied Buster, suiting the action to the word. From the cupboard he took six bottles which once upon a time, though not very recently, had contained sherry. These he stood upon a stool and was about to ransack the depths of the closet in quest of more when there came a rapping at the door.

"Hit's Mr. Dabble from the wine-shop, sir," announced Buster, after opening the door a little.

"Tell Mr. Dabble I didn't order any wine," said Moore, crossly. "Will I never get started on this poem?"

Buster conveyed the mentioned information to the clerk and received a reply in return that he felt justified in delivering.

"Mr. Dabble says has 'ow hit's a cursed lucky thing you did n't horder hanythink, and has 'ow it would n't do you hany good hif you hordered till Kingdom Come, sir."

"He said that, did he?" said Moore, angrily, rousing from his labors.

"Yes, sir. Shall Hi mash 'im in the phisomy?"

"No, Buster, I can't blame Mr. Porter for being angry, for it's a dog's age since I have paid him anything," answered Moore.

"Shall Hi let 'im hin?"

"Not yet, Buster. First ask him what ails the stout Mr. Porter?"

Buster snorted with merriment and repeated his master's question to the fellow in the hall.

"'Ee says has 'ow you knows confounded well wot hails 'im. 'Ee 's got no 'ead for hewmer, sir. Better let me mash 'im, Mr. Moore. The practice hand hexercise would do us both good."

"No, Buster, we 'll have no violence. Admit Mr. Dabble with appropriate solemnity."

"Step hin 'ere, you sour-faced cockney," said Buster, throwing open the door. "Turn your noble footsies hin this direction, han don't kick the nap hoff the brussels carpet with your feet stools or Hi will lift you one in the phisomy, which his 'igh Henglish fer that ugly face o' yourn, you willain."

Chapter Eleven

TOM MOORE RECEIVES VISITS FROM TWO COBBLERS AND A CLERK

Mr. Dabble was a slender, sharp-featured young man of six-and-twenty. His face was sour and suspicious, an expression that was heightened by his wispy yellow hair that bristled up not unlike the comb on a rooster. He was long and lank, and afflicted with an overweight of good opinion as to his own merits which may have been the cause of his stooping shoulders.

After giving Buster a squelching glance, intended to reduce that impudent youth to a proper degree of humility (a result which it conspicuously failed to produce), this worthy person entered briskly, carrying on his arm a basket covered with an old cloth. Dabble believed in system, and in this instance having an order of sherry to deliver in the neighborhood took advantage of his being in the vicinity to dun the poet for his long over-due account.

Setting down the basket on the floor near the door, the clerk drew a bill from his vest pocket and advanced with it to the table at which Moore was pretending to be busily scribbling.

"Mr. Dabble, sir," announced Buster.

Moore did not look up.

"Tell Dabble to go to the devil," he remarked, absent-mindedly, continuing his writing.

"Mr. Moore, I refuse to go to the devil," exclaimed Dabble, indignantly.

"Then don't go to the devil," answered Moore, still scribbling. "Call on some other relative."

"My employer says it is high time you paid this bill," persisted the clerk, thrusting the statement of Moore's account beneath the poet's nose, as Buster quietly investigated the contents of the basket the newcomer had brought with him.

"You must n't believe all you hear, Mr. Dabble," replied Moore. "Many casual statements are grossly incorrect. Really, the aggregate amount of misinformation current these days is most appalling. Just consider it for a moment if you have never given it thought before."

"I have no time for consideration, Mr. Moore."

"If you had more consideration for time--that is my time--and its value, you would not be delaying the completion of this poem in this manner," Moore answered, laying down the quill with a sigh of endurance. "Sit down, Mr. Dibble."

"My name is Dabble."

"Well, it would n't bend your name if you sat down, would it, Dibble?"

"Dabble, sir, Dabble."

"Quite true, sir. I frequently do in literature, but how did you know?"

"Sir," said the clerk impressively, "time flies and time is money."

"Indeed, Mr. Dibble? Let me make a suggestion then. You should take time, build a flying machine and make money. Then you would n't have to bother me for mine."

As Dabble stood for a moment quite disconcerted by the poet's remarkable advice, Buster, with exquisite care that no noise should be made to frustrate his design, extracted two of the full bottles from the deserted basket, and with equal caution replaced them with two of the empty ones he had set out preparatory to offering them for sale in the neighborhood.

So carefully did Buster execute this manoeuvre, that the attention of neither the clerk nor Moore was attracted to his performance, which was successfully repeated by the lad until only one full bottle remained in the basket, this being left deliberately for a certain purpose, not because the opportunity to purloin it had not been afforded him.

"Do you intend to pay this bill, sir?" demanded Dabble, waking up to the fact that he had been made fun of, and waxing angry accordingly.

"Certainly I intend to pay it, Mr. Dibble," said Moore impatiently.

"To-day?"

"No, I never pay bills on Tuesday."

"What day do you pay them on?"

"I usually liquidate all indebtedness on the twenty-ninth of February. If you will call around then I will be pleased to settle and may perhaps give you another order. Now you really must excuse me, as I am obliged to finish this sonnet without further delay."

"February is too far off," objected the clerk, not comprehending the space of time that must necessarily elapse before the date mentioned by Moore would be reached by the calendar, for this was not a leap-year.

"Well, then, pay it yourself, Mr. Dibble, if you are not satisfied with my way of doing it. Perhaps that would be the best way, after all."

"Mr. Moore, have done with joking. This bill--"

"Hang it, Dibble, you make more noise with your beak than you do with your bill," exclaimed Moore, trying indignation for a change. "You 'll have me out of my mind, if you don't look out."

"Well, that's evidently where our bill has been."

"Out of mind, Mr. Dibble?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then if it has no mind it is unreasonable, and I never pay unreasonable bills. Buster, the door for Mr. Dibble."

"I am not going yet, and my name is Dabble, not Dibble."

Moore waved Buster back as that pugnacious youth was about to lay violent hands on the clerk.

"Your father is responsible for your name. He is much to blame, Dibble. If I were you, I 'd sue the old man for damages."

"I see you have no intention of paying this bill, Mr. Moore," said the clerk, abandoning hope of collection.

"You must be a mind reader," observed Moore. "You could make a fortune exhibiting your gifts in public, sir. Now, my dear fellow, before you go, just to show there is no hard feeling between us personally, even if I owe your employer, have a drink with me."

"But," began Dabble.

"I 'll take no denial," said Moore, winningly. "Come, sir, you shan't refuse me. Buster, bring forth the precious liquor and we will do honor to our guest."

"I never drink a drop," expostulated the clerk, telling an outrageous lie incidentally.

"Well," said Moore, with a laugh, "I never drop a drink, so we cancel that objection. We will have a tiny wet together socially as two honest gentlemen should. We will drink health to Mrs. Dibble and all the little Dubbles."

"There is no little Dubbles, sir," answered the clerk, mollified in spite of himself by Moore's charming manner.

"What? No twins? That is an oversight, sir. Oh, well, we 'll be sanguine, Dibble, for there is no telling what may occur in the future. Accidents will happen in the best-regulated families, and I am sure yours is one of the best, so cheer up and don't despair. Buster, you devil, what is keeping you?"

"Hall ready, sir, hall ready," replied the boy, who, having extracted the cork from one of the stolen bottles, had carefully wrapped a cloth around it, so that the label would not betray his secret to the enemy while he was filling the glasses.

Moore, taking for granted that the beverage decanted by Buster was the poteen he had previously denied himself, watched Dabble eagerly as that gentleman raised his glass to his lips, expecting the usual cough and sputter to follow the first swallow of the fiery liquid. In this he was disappointed, for the clerk drank calmly and with evident enjoyment.

"What do you think of that whisky, Mr. Dabble?"

"Whisky, sir? This is sherry," answered the clerk, "and quite a respectable quality too."

"How 's that?" asked Moore, in surprise; then, sipping the contents of his own glass, he found that his guest was quite right. Meanwhile Buster, from the concealment afforded him behind Mr. Dabble, was making frantic gesticulations to his master, finally succeeding in catching his eye.

"What ails the boy?" muttered Moore, rarely puzzled to understand how his empty cupboard could have furnished the refreshment Buster had just put before them.

"Eh?" said Mr. Dabble, sipping his sherry in a manner that gave the lie to his recent announcement of total abstinence.

"Sherry it is," said Moore. "Fault of the label, Mr. Dabble. Your best health, sir."

"It is very fair sherry, Mr. Moore, very fair," declared the clerk, condescendingly, "but pardon me if I say it is hardly up to our level of quality."

"Is that so, Mr. Dabble?"

"Yes, sir. Now I have some really superior sherry in my basket there."

"Oh, law!" exclaimed Buster in an undertone. "'Ere is where Hi takes to cover."

And he tiptoed out of the doorway unnoticed.

"You don't say so, Mr. Dabble?" replied Moore in an interested tone.

"Indeed I do, Mr. Moore. I think I have time to show you," said Dabble, rising as he spoke.

"By all means do so."

Dabble pulled his watch from his pocket as he crossed to the basket.

"Gracious!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so late. I have n't a moment to spare. Good-day, sir.

"Good-day," said Moore politely, as the clerk picked up the basket, not noticing the difference in weight in the hurry of the moment, and opening the door closed by Buster in making his escape, nodded a last good-bye to the poet before going.

Left to himself, Moore took another drink from his glass.

"Where the devil," thought he, "did Buster get that wine? That boy is certainly a wonder."

A tremendous crash was heard in the hall below. Moore ran to the door, and leaning over the banister sought to discover the cause of the racket as up the stairs came Buster, running lightly in his stockinged feet as any cat. Moore seized him by the arm.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"Mr. Dabble 'as fell downstairs, sir," replied the boy cheerfully. "His n't hit hawful. You never 'eard such langwidge. Hi 'me shocked, Hi am."

"You little devil, you tripped him up."

"'Ee can't prove it, so wot's the hodds if Hi did?" asked Buster, not at all abashed at his master's accusation. "Hi think 'ee must 'ave fell hover Mrs. Malone, sir."

"Are you hurt, Mr. Dabble?" called Moore over the balustrade.

"No," replied Mrs. Malone, from far below. "He's not hur-ted, but he has broken all his bottles and the stairs is running over with sherry."

"I 'd like to lick up the stairs," answered the poet. "Give him my sympathy, Mrs. Malone, and tell him I send my love to the twins."

"Have you the rint, Misther Moore?"

"I 'm not dressed yet, Mrs. Malone."

"Are you going to dress to-day?"

"I am surprised at your indelicacy in asking such an immodest question of an innocent and unmarried young man," replied Moore reprovingly. "If you keep on I 'll feel it my duty to mention your behavior to Father O'Houlihan. Oh, it is shocked he would be, Mrs. Malone."

"Niver mind," answered the landlady. "You lave Father O'Houlihan to me."

"I don't know whether the good man will be safe in your hands after this morning's revelation, Mrs. Malone. He don't look over strong."

"Wait till I get hold of you, you rapscallion."

"No, I can't wait," said Moore, slamming the door as he returned to his own apartment.

"Buster!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Explain this misfortune of Mr. Babble's."

"Ho, 'ee 'll never know, sir, habout the sherry," replied Buster, reassuringly.

"He won't?" said Moore, still in the dark. "What do you mean, lad?"

"Hi left 'im one full bottle, so hif 'ee should 'appen to fall hon 'is way downstairs hit would be hall right. Hi 've got hall 'ee 'ad with 'im hexcept that one bottle wich Hi feels has 'ow hit was a cruel shame to waste."

As the boy spoke he threw open the cupboard and exhibited his plunder neatly arranged in two rows on the middle shelf.

Moore swore gently in his astonishment and sat down.

"Buster," said he, "have you no morals?"

"No, sir, but Hi 'as the sherry."

"Well, there is no use in sending it back, I suppose. It's six more bottles to be added to the bill when I pay it."

"Yessir, this his simply hour method hof obtaining more credit, sir."

"Buster," said Moore solemnly. "You are a financier. We 'll have a glass together."

* * * * *

Promptly at four a dapper little person, who moved with such lively and mannered steps, even when walking at his slowest gait, that his general demeanor was highly suggestive of a dancing master in business hours, entered the house which was honored by the presence of Thomas Moore and his faithful servant. This individual was a cobbler named Hypocrates Slink, who hammered and sewed leather in a little store perhaps a hundred yards farther down the street than the house presided over by Mrs. Malone. He had red hair and a nose gently tinted with another shade of the same color. His eyes were small, blue, and not entirely guiltless of a squint; in fact, his chief rival in the trade was wont to describe him as a cock-eyed impostor. This, being repeated to Mr. Slink, had caused him to make remarks of a decidedly acrimonious nature in reply, and as these had in their turn been faithfully carried to the object that had drawn them forth, a bitter feud was engendered, the result being that the neighborhood was frequently provided with amusement by the verbal combats of the two cobblers, for, while physical encounters seemed pending, as yet there had none taken place.