Chapter TenIN WHICH THE LANDLADY IS PLAYED A TRICKIn 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."Mycoldbath, 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 'ishown, Mrs. Malone.""Are you sure of thot?""W'y h'are you so suspicious, Mrs. Malone? 'Aveyoumissed 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:"Whereisthat soap?Whereisthatsoap?Oh,wherein Blazesisthat 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. "Areyouthere, 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 'mnotdressed, am I?""How should I know?" observed Mrs. Malone, loudly, meanwhile mopping her neck with her handkerchief."Well," responded the poet, "youwillknow, 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 whatails 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 ElevenTOM MOORE RECEIVES VISITS FROM TWO COBBLERS AND A CLERKMr. 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 daydoyou 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.Having knocked for admittance, Mr. Slink was duly announced and ushered in by Buster, whose manner to one better versed in the youth's peculiarities would have seemed suspiciously courteous."Good-day to you, Mr. Slink," said Moore, pleasantly. "Is your health salubrious?""Quite werry, sir," replied the cobbler, approaching his patron with his usual mincing step."And have you the boots, Mr. Slink?""I have, sir," replied the cobbler, exhibiting a paper-wrapped bundle, nestling beneath his arm. "Here they are, sir, but the money, sir? You promised cash, sir. That is to say, sir, I intimidated as delicatesome as I could that I must have the coin, sir, before I could let you have them, sir.""So I have been informed by my man," replied Moore. "Really, my good sir, such suspicions are unworthy of you. Believe me, it is with regret I perceive the taint of cynicism in an otherwise charming character.""Yes, sir," answered Mr. Slink. "Yes, sir. Them is just my own sentiments, but I have a large family, and one that I may say, proudly and truthfully, sir, is on the steady increase.""My sympathy to you in your misfortune," said Moore, hastily. "Ah, England owes much of her advancement to her noble citizens. It is such men as you make possible the Orphan Asylums, for without the young and deserving what would become of such worthy institutions?""Sir, you take the werry words out o' my mouth. Scarcely a day passes but I says much the same thing to Matilda. You see, she being a mother and a woman--""The natural implication, believe me, Mr. Slink," interrupted Moore."Oh, quite, sir. One usually follows on the other. Matilda is apt to become downcast when she compares population with pocket-book, for as one goes up the other goes down, so I made her a solemn promise after the sixth that business should be placed on a strictly cash basis in the future.""Ah," observed Moore, interestedly, "and did that encourage the good woman?""I think it must have, for our next blessing was twins, boy and girl, sir.""Cause and effect is a most diverting study," observed Moore. "Now that you have explained the reason for your insisting upon immediate material compensation for your labor, I cease to regard such a stipulation as insulting.""Yes, sir," replied the gratified cobbler."But, Mr. Slink, have you thought of the result that might ensue if too much encouragement be provided for so lofty an ambition as that which stirs your wife's existence? Twins can be endured, but, sir, think of triplets!""Well, sir, I holds that there is luck in odd numbers," answered Mr. Slink, quite unimpressed by the poet's argument and its obvious conclusions, "so, if you 'll let me, I shall be delighted to enleather your pedals, if I may make bold to so term your feet.""Just as you say, Mr. Slink; but, of course, before I part with my money I naturally desire to be certain that the boots fit me.""All right," said the cobbler, undoing his parcel. "Sit you down, Mr. Moore, and I 'll exhibit my wares."Moore took the stool brought to him by Buster, and the cobbler, kneeling down, proceeded with sundry pulls and pushes to inclose his foot in the new shoe."Easy, easy!" said Moore, clutching the bottom of the stool, to keep from being shoved off it. "You are not pushing a cart, even if you are driving a bargain, Mr. Slink.""There you are," exclaimed the cobbler, sitting on his heels as he wiped the perspiration from his wrinkled brow. "There you are. A beautiful fit, or may I be unworthy of Matilda.""Your merit, Mr. Slink, has already been proved if your previous statements are authentic," said Moore. "Statistics bear me out, my friend. I am quite convinced you are a splendidly matched pair.""Well, sir, this other boot is just as good a match for the one you have on.""Try it, Mr. Slink, try it. There is nothing like doing things thoroughly. I know Matilda and you agree with me there."Slink obediently started to fit the other shoe, finding some little difficulty in doing so, for Moore contrived to make the operation a very difficult one, and for a purpose, as will be seen later."You are an artist, Mr. Slink," said Moore, approvingly. "Look at the boot, Buster. Did you ever see better?""Never 'as 'ow Hi remembers. Oh, Mr. Slink his a tiptopper when it comes to shoes heven if Mr. Smirk hallows 'as 'ow 'ee 's a bloomink bungler," replied Buster, winking at his master. "But, hof corse, Mr. Smirk, being a bachelor, 'ee hain't as careful as 'ee might be. 'Ee says 'ee 'as no wife to beat 'im as hothers 'ee says 'ee knows hof in the same business 'as.""If that baldheaded leather-spoiler means me, all I have to say is that no decent woman would consider matrimonially no such rum-soaked old ravellings as that same Smirk," replied Mr. Slink, puffing at his work. "He has no pride in his handiwork. His shoes lack all soul, spirituously speaking.""Pride," repeated Moore, with a grimace of discomfort. "That shoe will have to be pried before I can wear it. Oh! It is tight, Mr. Slink, cursedly tight, Mr. Slink. Were you yourself quite sober when you made it?""Yes, sir, I was. I always am sober, sir.""Then it is the wind that tints your proboscis that strawberry pink, is it?" said Moore. "Suppose you have a gentle breeze with me. I 've a new lot of sherry just sent me by Admiral Nelson. You must try it, Mr. Slink. Just a little puff of wind? A squall more or less won't affect the color of your nose.""I 'll be delighted, sir," replied the cobbler, getting on his feet. "As I always says to Matilda--"A little wine now and thenIs cheery for the soberest men.""Ah," said Moore, "I see you are a student of the poets?""That verse is of my own decomposition," answered Mr. Slink proudly."I believe you," said Moore, suavely. "Your health, Mr. Slink, the health of Mrs. Slink, and all the little Slinkers!"The cobbler emptied his glass and smacked his lips."We forgot to drink your own health, Mr. Moore. We must repair that oversight instanterly, if I may make so bold.""I 'm flattered," replied Moore. "Buster, fill the glasses again.""Splendid wine," remarked Mr. Slink, rather thickly for, if the truth be known, he had treated himself twice at the ale-house across the street before mounting to the attic, and this unwonted indulgence in addition to the hospitality of the poet made an aggregate amount of intoxicants quite a little more than he could comfortably contain."You 're a judge of liquor, Mr. Moore, a gentleman and a scholar in the bargain. I 've always told Matilda so, I assure you.""I am delighted to hear you say so, Mr. Slink. Now if you will take this shoe that is tight back to the shop and have it stretched, I 'll pay you for the pair if the one that pinches suits as well as this I have on, when I try it on again.""Just so, sir," replied the cobbler, cheerfully, meanwhile getting down on his knees to remove the unsatisfactory boot. "I 'll not be long, sir. You can rely on my return, sir, within the hour.""That will be soon enough," said Moore. "Here is your paper, Mr. Slink.""Thank you, sir," said the now thoroughly exhilarated shoemaker, wrapping up the boot, as Moore resumed the well-worn slippers he had temporarily discarded for the test of Mr. Slink's handiwork."Good day, Mr. Slink.""Good day, Mr. Moore.""Oh, my best respects to Mrs. Slink.""Matilda will be delighted, sir," replied the cobbler, moving out into the hall with a step decidedly uncertain.Moore gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction as the sound of feet died away upon the stairs below."But, sir," said Buster, inquiringly, as he shut the door, "wot use his one boot?"Moore regarded his youthful retainer with a look of mild astonishment."Don't you understand, Buster?""Not Hi, sir.""Well then, I 'll not tell you. Demonstration is far more valuable than explanation. So just watch me, my lad. A study of Thomas Moore when hard up is a liberal education for the young and unsophisticated. You shall be educated, Buster.""Yes, sir. Wot his it, Lord Castlereagh?""Gr-r-r-g-h!" remarked the bulldog, warningly, at the same time sniffing suspiciously at the crack of the door."Is-s-s Mister-r-r M-M-M-oore in?" demanded a husky voice, enthusiastically and persistently hyphenated by a decided stutter."Hit's the hother shoemaker, sir," whispered Buster, recognizing the thick utterance of the newcomer. "The one who spits on his words, sir, before 'ee lets loose hof 'em.""Faith," said Moore, "it is a good thing the hall is dark. They must have met on the stairs. It's a wonder we escaped bloodshed, Buster.""I s-say, is-s-s Mr. M-M-Moore at h-home?" repeated the shoemaker, with a hiccup that was plainly perceptible within the attic."Phew!" exclaimed Buster in an undertone, recoiling from the keyhole. "Hole Smirk his loaded hup to 'is hears. You won't need to waste hany of the Hadmiral's sherry hon 'im, sir. 'Ee 's fragrant, sir, that's wot 'ee his, hand it hain't no bloomin' new mown 'ay wot flavors 'im, Hi tells yer.""Admit the gentleman," said Moore, opening the windows to their widest extent. "A friend in need is a friend indeed.""A friend in soak his more like it," murmured the boy, opening the door obediently.The big, bald-headed, redfaced man who had egged Bekowsky on to disaster earlier in the afternoon staggered in with an oath and a hiccup so entangled on his lips that neither he nor his hosts made any effort to translate his greeting."Good-day, Mr. Smirk," observed Moore, pleasantly. "You are looking well, sir.""T-t-t-hat is-s n-no ex-c-cuse f'r keeping me w-w-waiting a month in the h-h-hall," replied the intoxicated tradesman, thickly, endeavoring to look offended."We thought you were a publisher, my friend, and we always make them wait a little while before we admit them," said Moore. "It has a most beneficial effect upon their opinion of me as a writer. Independence is frequently accepted as indicative of personal affluence, as you doubtless know."Mr. Smirk looked a trifle dazed, and then, abandoning his effort at comprehension, proceeded to get to his business without further delay."H-h-have you the m-money for the b-boots, Mr. M-M-Moore?" he inquired, holding his parcel behind him as though fearful that he might be robbed."Ah, sir," replied Moore, suavely, "money fits any hand, but my foot does n't fit every shoe. I 'll try them on if you are not too tired.""Y-yes, s-sir," replied Smirk, with difficulty unwrapping his package."Your words are as slow as my rent," said Moore, sitting down.The cobbler dropped heavily on his knees, and losing his balance, fell forward on Moore's lap almost knocking him off the stool."It is n't time to lie down yet," said the poet, restoring the tradesman to his equilibrium. "You forgot your prayers, sir."Smirk succeeded in getting one of the boots on without much difficulty, but the other stuck fast in spite of the earnest endeavors of its maker."Is it a straight jacket you have there, Mr. Smirk?" demanded Moore. "Don't trouble to answer me. It will take too long. You will have to have that stretched, sir.""Y-yes, s-sir," replied the cobbler, "that will f-f-fix it fine.""Take it along, Mr. Smirk, and have it attended to immediately," directed the poet. "When I try it on again, if it's all right, I 'll pay you for the pair. How long will it take you?""I 'll be b-back in l-less than an hour, Mr. M-M-Moore, and see you have your money r-ready.""Ready money is a nice thing," assented Moore. "Good day, Mr. Smirk.""G-g-good d-day," began the shoemaker."Finish it outside," suggested Moore."I w-w-will, s-sir," replied Smirk, and as he proceeded slowly and unsteadily downstairs, the whisky-burdened tones of the cobbler died away in a murmur and then ceased entirely."Observe me, Buster," said Moore, boots in hand. "These boots are made of one style. From Mr. Smirk I have procured one for my right foot; from Mr. Slink one for my left. The two together make a pair, which is the object I set out to accomplish.""'Ooray!" shouted Buster. "Hi sees. Hi sees.""A trifle late, Buster, a trifle late," said Moore, pulling on his recently acquired spoils."But, sir," said the boy, apprehensively, "they will both be back in a little while.""Well, I 'll take pains not to be here then.""But they 'll watch hand ketch you sooner hor later.""That is all the good it will do them," replied Moore, cheerfully, regarding his feet with no little amount of approval."Hi knows, sir, but you never breaks your word, sir, hand you promised to pay--""Whendid I say I 'd pay, Buster?""When you tried on the other boot, sir.""Well, that is a simple matter, lad. Iwon'ttry the other boot on.""Won't yer?""Not I, and they will have a nice easy time making me against my will.""Hi sees, Mr. Moore," cried the boy, delighted at the discovery of a means of discomfiting the cobbler without breaking a promise.Moore sighed."Ah, Buster," he said sadly, "when luck comes we will pay all these men. Till then they will have to give us credit, and if they won't give it, we will take it, but for every penny I owe them now, I 'll pay them two when I can afford to settle. I can do without wine, but without boots I 'd not earn the coin to pay any of my debts. I don't like such trickery, heaven knows, but I must get on. I must get on.""Hif they were n't crazy fools, they 'd be glad to trust us," assented Buster. "We 'll pay 'em when McDermot brings hout our book hof poems.""That reminds me," said Moore, "it must be almost time for me to hear from that same gentleman.""Yessir. Say, does Hi get a hautograph copy?""You do, Buster," replied Moore, smiling. "No one deserves it more than you, I am sure.""A hautograph copy," repeated Buster, delightedly. "My, but that will be fine. Hand I wants yer to write your name hin the front of it?""Don't you know what an autograph copy is, Buster?" asked Moore, his eyes twinkling."That Hi does," said the boy, confidently. "Hit's one with gilt hedges hall around it. Hi knows."
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.
"Mycoldbath, 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 'ishown, Mrs. Malone."
"Are you sure of thot?"
"W'y h'are you so suspicious, Mrs. Malone? 'Aveyoumissed 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,"
"She is far from the land,"
"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,
"Where her young hero sleeps,
"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--
"And lovers around her are sighing,But coldly she turns--
"And lovers around her are sighing,
But coldly she turns--
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.
"But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,For her heart in his grave is lying.
"But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
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:
"Whereisthat soap?Whereisthatsoap?Oh,wherein Blazesisthat so-o-o-ap?
"Whereisthat soap?Whereisthatsoap?Oh,wherein Blazesisthat so-o-o-ap?
"Whereisthat soap?
Whereisthatsoap?
Oh,wherein Blazesisthat 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. "Areyouthere, 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 'mnotdressed, am I?"
"How should I know?" observed Mrs. Malone, loudly, meanwhile mopping her neck with her handkerchief.
"Well," responded the poet, "youwillknow, 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 whatails 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 daydoyou 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.
Having knocked for admittance, Mr. Slink was duly announced and ushered in by Buster, whose manner to one better versed in the youth's peculiarities would have seemed suspiciously courteous.
"Good-day to you, Mr. Slink," said Moore, pleasantly. "Is your health salubrious?"
"Quite werry, sir," replied the cobbler, approaching his patron with his usual mincing step.
"And have you the boots, Mr. Slink?"
"I have, sir," replied the cobbler, exhibiting a paper-wrapped bundle, nestling beneath his arm. "Here they are, sir, but the money, sir? You promised cash, sir. That is to say, sir, I intimidated as delicatesome as I could that I must have the coin, sir, before I could let you have them, sir."
"So I have been informed by my man," replied Moore. "Really, my good sir, such suspicions are unworthy of you. Believe me, it is with regret I perceive the taint of cynicism in an otherwise charming character."
"Yes, sir," answered Mr. Slink. "Yes, sir. Them is just my own sentiments, but I have a large family, and one that I may say, proudly and truthfully, sir, is on the steady increase."
"My sympathy to you in your misfortune," said Moore, hastily. "Ah, England owes much of her advancement to her noble citizens. It is such men as you make possible the Orphan Asylums, for without the young and deserving what would become of such worthy institutions?"
"Sir, you take the werry words out o' my mouth. Scarcely a day passes but I says much the same thing to Matilda. You see, she being a mother and a woman--"
"The natural implication, believe me, Mr. Slink," interrupted Moore.
"Oh, quite, sir. One usually follows on the other. Matilda is apt to become downcast when she compares population with pocket-book, for as one goes up the other goes down, so I made her a solemn promise after the sixth that business should be placed on a strictly cash basis in the future."
"Ah," observed Moore, interestedly, "and did that encourage the good woman?"
"I think it must have, for our next blessing was twins, boy and girl, sir."
"Cause and effect is a most diverting study," observed Moore. "Now that you have explained the reason for your insisting upon immediate material compensation for your labor, I cease to regard such a stipulation as insulting."
"Yes, sir," replied the gratified cobbler.
"But, Mr. Slink, have you thought of the result that might ensue if too much encouragement be provided for so lofty an ambition as that which stirs your wife's existence? Twins can be endured, but, sir, think of triplets!"
"Well, sir, I holds that there is luck in odd numbers," answered Mr. Slink, quite unimpressed by the poet's argument and its obvious conclusions, "so, if you 'll let me, I shall be delighted to enleather your pedals, if I may make bold to so term your feet."
"Just as you say, Mr. Slink; but, of course, before I part with my money I naturally desire to be certain that the boots fit me."
"All right," said the cobbler, undoing his parcel. "Sit you down, Mr. Moore, and I 'll exhibit my wares."
Moore took the stool brought to him by Buster, and the cobbler, kneeling down, proceeded with sundry pulls and pushes to inclose his foot in the new shoe.
"Easy, easy!" said Moore, clutching the bottom of the stool, to keep from being shoved off it. "You are not pushing a cart, even if you are driving a bargain, Mr. Slink."
"There you are," exclaimed the cobbler, sitting on his heels as he wiped the perspiration from his wrinkled brow. "There you are. A beautiful fit, or may I be unworthy of Matilda."
"Your merit, Mr. Slink, has already been proved if your previous statements are authentic," said Moore. "Statistics bear me out, my friend. I am quite convinced you are a splendidly matched pair."
"Well, sir, this other boot is just as good a match for the one you have on."
"Try it, Mr. Slink, try it. There is nothing like doing things thoroughly. I know Matilda and you agree with me there."
Slink obediently started to fit the other shoe, finding some little difficulty in doing so, for Moore contrived to make the operation a very difficult one, and for a purpose, as will be seen later.
"You are an artist, Mr. Slink," said Moore, approvingly. "Look at the boot, Buster. Did you ever see better?"
"Never 'as 'ow Hi remembers. Oh, Mr. Slink his a tiptopper when it comes to shoes heven if Mr. Smirk hallows 'as 'ow 'ee 's a bloomink bungler," replied Buster, winking at his master. "But, hof corse, Mr. Smirk, being a bachelor, 'ee hain't as careful as 'ee might be. 'Ee says 'ee 'as no wife to beat 'im as hothers 'ee says 'ee knows hof in the same business 'as."
"If that baldheaded leather-spoiler means me, all I have to say is that no decent woman would consider matrimonially no such rum-soaked old ravellings as that same Smirk," replied Mr. Slink, puffing at his work. "He has no pride in his handiwork. His shoes lack all soul, spirituously speaking."
"Pride," repeated Moore, with a grimace of discomfort. "That shoe will have to be pried before I can wear it. Oh! It is tight, Mr. Slink, cursedly tight, Mr. Slink. Were you yourself quite sober when you made it?"
"Yes, sir, I was. I always am sober, sir."
"Then it is the wind that tints your proboscis that strawberry pink, is it?" said Moore. "Suppose you have a gentle breeze with me. I 've a new lot of sherry just sent me by Admiral Nelson. You must try it, Mr. Slink. Just a little puff of wind? A squall more or less won't affect the color of your nose."
"I 'll be delighted, sir," replied the cobbler, getting on his feet. "As I always says to Matilda--
"A little wine now and thenIs cheery for the soberest men."
"A little wine now and thenIs cheery for the soberest men."
"A little wine now and then
Is cheery for the soberest men."
"Ah," said Moore, "I see you are a student of the poets?"
"That verse is of my own decomposition," answered Mr. Slink proudly.
"I believe you," said Moore, suavely. "Your health, Mr. Slink, the health of Mrs. Slink, and all the little Slinkers!"
The cobbler emptied his glass and smacked his lips.
"We forgot to drink your own health, Mr. Moore. We must repair that oversight instanterly, if I may make so bold."
"I 'm flattered," replied Moore. "Buster, fill the glasses again."
"Splendid wine," remarked Mr. Slink, rather thickly for, if the truth be known, he had treated himself twice at the ale-house across the street before mounting to the attic, and this unwonted indulgence in addition to the hospitality of the poet made an aggregate amount of intoxicants quite a little more than he could comfortably contain.
"You 're a judge of liquor, Mr. Moore, a gentleman and a scholar in the bargain. I 've always told Matilda so, I assure you."
"I am delighted to hear you say so, Mr. Slink. Now if you will take this shoe that is tight back to the shop and have it stretched, I 'll pay you for the pair if the one that pinches suits as well as this I have on, when I try it on again."
"Just so, sir," replied the cobbler, cheerfully, meanwhile getting down on his knees to remove the unsatisfactory boot. "I 'll not be long, sir. You can rely on my return, sir, within the hour."
"That will be soon enough," said Moore. "Here is your paper, Mr. Slink."
"Thank you, sir," said the now thoroughly exhilarated shoemaker, wrapping up the boot, as Moore resumed the well-worn slippers he had temporarily discarded for the test of Mr. Slink's handiwork.
"Good day, Mr. Slink."
"Good day, Mr. Moore."
"Oh, my best respects to Mrs. Slink."
"Matilda will be delighted, sir," replied the cobbler, moving out into the hall with a step decidedly uncertain.
Moore gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction as the sound of feet died away upon the stairs below.
"But, sir," said Buster, inquiringly, as he shut the door, "wot use his one boot?"
Moore regarded his youthful retainer with a look of mild astonishment.
"Don't you understand, Buster?"
"Not Hi, sir."
"Well then, I 'll not tell you. Demonstration is far more valuable than explanation. So just watch me, my lad. A study of Thomas Moore when hard up is a liberal education for the young and unsophisticated. You shall be educated, Buster."
"Yes, sir. Wot his it, Lord Castlereagh?"
"Gr-r-r-g-h!" remarked the bulldog, warningly, at the same time sniffing suspiciously at the crack of the door.
"Is-s-s Mister-r-r M-M-M-oore in?" demanded a husky voice, enthusiastically and persistently hyphenated by a decided stutter.
"Hit's the hother shoemaker, sir," whispered Buster, recognizing the thick utterance of the newcomer. "The one who spits on his words, sir, before 'ee lets loose hof 'em."
"Faith," said Moore, "it is a good thing the hall is dark. They must have met on the stairs. It's a wonder we escaped bloodshed, Buster."
"I s-say, is-s-s Mr. M-M-Moore at h-home?" repeated the shoemaker, with a hiccup that was plainly perceptible within the attic.
"Phew!" exclaimed Buster in an undertone, recoiling from the keyhole. "Hole Smirk his loaded hup to 'is hears. You won't need to waste hany of the Hadmiral's sherry hon 'im, sir. 'Ee 's fragrant, sir, that's wot 'ee his, hand it hain't no bloomin' new mown 'ay wot flavors 'im, Hi tells yer."
"Admit the gentleman," said Moore, opening the windows to their widest extent. "A friend in need is a friend indeed."
"A friend in soak his more like it," murmured the boy, opening the door obediently.
The big, bald-headed, redfaced man who had egged Bekowsky on to disaster earlier in the afternoon staggered in with an oath and a hiccup so entangled on his lips that neither he nor his hosts made any effort to translate his greeting.
"Good-day, Mr. Smirk," observed Moore, pleasantly. "You are looking well, sir."
"T-t-t-hat is-s n-no ex-c-cuse f'r keeping me w-w-waiting a month in the h-h-hall," replied the intoxicated tradesman, thickly, endeavoring to look offended.
"We thought you were a publisher, my friend, and we always make them wait a little while before we admit them," said Moore. "It has a most beneficial effect upon their opinion of me as a writer. Independence is frequently accepted as indicative of personal affluence, as you doubtless know."
Mr. Smirk looked a trifle dazed, and then, abandoning his effort at comprehension, proceeded to get to his business without further delay.
"H-h-have you the m-money for the b-boots, Mr. M-M-Moore?" he inquired, holding his parcel behind him as though fearful that he might be robbed.
"Ah, sir," replied Moore, suavely, "money fits any hand, but my foot does n't fit every shoe. I 'll try them on if you are not too tired."
"Y-yes, s-sir," replied Smirk, with difficulty unwrapping his package.
"Your words are as slow as my rent," said Moore, sitting down.
The cobbler dropped heavily on his knees, and losing his balance, fell forward on Moore's lap almost knocking him off the stool.
"It is n't time to lie down yet," said the poet, restoring the tradesman to his equilibrium. "You forgot your prayers, sir."
Smirk succeeded in getting one of the boots on without much difficulty, but the other stuck fast in spite of the earnest endeavors of its maker.
"Is it a straight jacket you have there, Mr. Smirk?" demanded Moore. "Don't trouble to answer me. It will take too long. You will have to have that stretched, sir."
"Y-yes, s-sir," replied the cobbler, "that will f-f-fix it fine."
"Take it along, Mr. Smirk, and have it attended to immediately," directed the poet. "When I try it on again, if it's all right, I 'll pay you for the pair. How long will it take you?"
"I 'll be b-back in l-less than an hour, Mr. M-M-Moore, and see you have your money r-ready."
"Ready money is a nice thing," assented Moore. "Good day, Mr. Smirk."
"G-g-good d-day," began the shoemaker.
"Finish it outside," suggested Moore.
"I w-w-will, s-sir," replied Smirk, and as he proceeded slowly and unsteadily downstairs, the whisky-burdened tones of the cobbler died away in a murmur and then ceased entirely.
"Observe me, Buster," said Moore, boots in hand. "These boots are made of one style. From Mr. Smirk I have procured one for my right foot; from Mr. Slink one for my left. The two together make a pair, which is the object I set out to accomplish."
"'Ooray!" shouted Buster. "Hi sees. Hi sees."
"A trifle late, Buster, a trifle late," said Moore, pulling on his recently acquired spoils.
"But, sir," said the boy, apprehensively, "they will both be back in a little while."
"Well, I 'll take pains not to be here then."
"But they 'll watch hand ketch you sooner hor later."
"That is all the good it will do them," replied Moore, cheerfully, regarding his feet with no little amount of approval.
"Hi knows, sir, but you never breaks your word, sir, hand you promised to pay--"
"Whendid I say I 'd pay, Buster?"
"When you tried on the other boot, sir."
"Well, that is a simple matter, lad. Iwon'ttry the other boot on."
"Won't yer?"
"Not I, and they will have a nice easy time making me against my will."
"Hi sees, Mr. Moore," cried the boy, delighted at the discovery of a means of discomfiting the cobbler without breaking a promise.
Moore sighed.
"Ah, Buster," he said sadly, "when luck comes we will pay all these men. Till then they will have to give us credit, and if they won't give it, we will take it, but for every penny I owe them now, I 'll pay them two when I can afford to settle. I can do without wine, but without boots I 'd not earn the coin to pay any of my debts. I don't like such trickery, heaven knows, but I must get on. I must get on."
"Hif they were n't crazy fools, they 'd be glad to trust us," assented Buster. "We 'll pay 'em when McDermot brings hout our book hof poems."
"That reminds me," said Moore, "it must be almost time for me to hear from that same gentleman."
"Yessir. Say, does Hi get a hautograph copy?"
"You do, Buster," replied Moore, smiling. "No one deserves it more than you, I am sure."
"A hautograph copy," repeated Buster, delightedly. "My, but that will be fine. Hand I wants yer to write your name hin the front of it?"
"Don't you know what an autograph copy is, Buster?" asked Moore, his eyes twinkling.
"That Hi does," said the boy, confidently. "Hit's one with gilt hedges hall around it. Hi knows."