Chapter III: Part 3

"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.