"That for you and the prince," she said, her nose in the air.
"Mrs. Malone, you 're a hanarchist," declared Buster, shocked beyond
expression.
"Mr. Buster, you 're a liar," replied the landlady, promptly.
"You 're no judge, Mrs. Malone. We honly puts hup with hanarchy from
Mr. Dyke, the poet, who comes 'ere and reads 'is treason reeking verses
to Mr. Moore. One hanarchist on hour calling list is enough."
"You call me that name again, and I 'll smack you," exclaimed Mrs.
Malone, pugnaciously.
"Smack me!" echoed Buster, in trepidation. "Hif you kisses me, Mrs.
Malone, Hi 'll scream."
"Kiss you, indeed!" snorted the landlady, scornfully.
"Don't you dare," warned Buster, getting behind a table for greater
safety.
"Is your good-for-nothing master in?"
"Hi am not hacquainted with no such hindividual. Hif you means Mr.
Moore, 'ee 's hout."
Mrs. Malone looked her disbelief, and pointed grimly to the boots, which
Buster had dropped upon the table.
"Oh," said Buster, a trifle dashed, but rallying immediately, "these is
souvenirs of the great poet. This goes to 'is Reverence the Harchbishop
of Canterbury to be used as a snuff box, and this his to stand on the
dressing-table of Mrs. Fitz'erbert 'erself. She will put 'er combings
hinto it."
"Thot jezebel?" ejaculated the woman, with a sniff of disdain.
"But Mrs. Fitz'erbert does n't 'ail from Jersey," corrected Buster.
"She 's from Wicklow, Hireland."
"She 's not," cried Mrs. Malone in a high dudgeon. "We don't raise her
kind there. Only dacent people like me comes from the Vale of Avoca."
Buster looked interested.
"Say, tell us, his there hany more like you there?" he asked anxiously.
"There is," replied Mrs. Malone, proudly, "but none betther."
"Hit's a good thing Hireland is so far horf, is n't it?" said the boy in
a tone of cordial congratulation.
Mrs. Malone threw a boot at him by way of answer, but, instead of
striking Buster, it flew through the entrance to the adjoining room and
was heard to strike noisily on the head board of the bed.
"Oh--h--h!" came from within.
"There, you 'as done it, Mrs. Malone," said the boy reproachfully.
"Hullo, there," said the voice, sleepily. "Much obliged, I am sure.
Who hit me with a boot? Eh? Buster, I 'll have your British blood to
pay for it."
"If you do," responded Mrs. Malone, emphatically, "it will be the first
thing you 've paid for in many a day."
"What?" said the voice. "Do I hear the dulcet tones of my lovely
landlady?"
Mrs. Malone gave a sniff of concentrated scorn.
"Niver mind your blarney, Tom Moore," said she. "Where is the rint?"
"What would I be doing with it?" came from behind the curtain.
"I knows," replied Mrs. Malone, indignantly. "You would be sending
flowers to some actress at the theayter over on Drury Lane, instead of
paying me. Thot's what you 'd be doing, young sir."
"You 've guessed it the first time," admitted Moore, "and that is all
the good it would do me. She won't look at me, Mrs. Malone."
"Small blame to her since that shows she 's a dacint, sensible colleen,"
replied the landlady, in tones of conviction, as her lodger drew aside
the curtains of the doorway, and stepped out into the room.
Tom Moore it was, but such a different youth from the one who in Ireland
had pestered the little school-mistress with his loving attentions.
Trouble and privation had thinned and hollowed his jolly face; lines of
worry and disappointment were crossed round his eyes. His mouth was as
sweet and tender as of yore, but the impertinent nose stood forth much
more sharply. He looked ten years older, but the same winning smile
played around his lips, and in its light the shadows of want and
hopelessness vanished from his face like fog 'neath the warming touch of
sunbeams. He was only half dressed, the absence of coat, vest, and
stock being concealed beneath the enveloping folds of an old brocade
dressing-gown, which undoubtedly had once been a magnificent affair, but
now was only too much in harmony with the surrounding squalor.
"Sweet Mistress Malone, with your eyes deep and blue,
Don't ask me for rent, for I 'm telling you true,
'T would make me a bankrupt if I should pay you,
So let the rent slide like a darling,--Now _do_."
As Moore extemporized he laid his hand insinuatingly upon the landlady's
muscular arm, but she threw it off roughly as he finished.
"You can't plaster me, Tom Moore," she declared, loudly.
Buster and Lord Castlereagh retired to a safe distance and watched
proceedings with eager eyes.
"Plaster you?" repeated Moore, meditatively, then suddenly laying hands
upon her, he twirled the old lady gently around. "Why should I plaster
you when nature has covered your laths so nicely?"
"Don't touch me, you young divil," Mrs. Malone ejaculated. "How dare
you take such liberties?"
"Mine is only a friendly interest," protested Moore.
"I wants no impudence."
"Who said you were wanting in impudence?" demanded Moore. "Tell me the
wretch's name, and I 'll attend to his business."
"Nivir mind," replied the landlady, picking up the mate to the boot she
had hurled at Buster. "It's high time you had new boots. I 'll have no
tramps or ragbags lodging here."
"Mrs. Malone," said Moore, cheerfully, "I quite agree with you. I am
pleased to say I shall have a new pair to-day."
"You will, will you?" retorted the old woman. "We hear ducks."
"I don't hear either ducks or geese. Do you, Buster?"
"Hi 'ears Mrs. Malone, sir," replied the lad, stepping behind the
bulldog for safety's sake.
"The mistake is natural," answered Moore. "You were saying--?"
"There is not a shoemaker in London who would trust you, Tom Moore, nor
any other tradesman," said Mrs. Malone, on whom the foregoing piece of
impudence was quite thrown away.
"Nevertheless, I 'll bet you the back rent--the all the way back rent,
Mrs. Malone--I have a grand new pair to-day," declared Moore, defiantly.
"Am I right, Buster?"
"Yessir, that we will," asserted that staunch ally.
"Niver mind thot," replied the landlady, extending her palm. "Misther
Moore, I 'll thank you for the rint."
Moore took her hand and pressed it warmly.
"No thanks are necessary," he said briskly, "since I have n't it."
The old woman snatched her fingers away with a vigor that nearly upset
her lodger.
"I 'll have thot rint," she exclaimed.
"I sincerely hope so, Mrs. Malone, though how you 'll get it I can't
see."
"I'll make you see."
"That is very accommodating, I am sure."
"You must raise it, Misther Moore, or I 'll have to have me attic."
Moore looked at her admiringly.
"Ah, Mrs. Malone, surely such a face never went with any but a kind
heart," he said gently.
"Thot 'll do you, young sir," replied the landlady, quite unimpressed.
"Ah!" continued the poet, with a sigh. "You are not true Irish, Mrs.
Malone."
"You know betther, Tom Moore. Was n't it my old man, God rest his good
soul in peace, that taught you your A-B-C's in Ireland? Yes it was, and
many 's the time he said to me, 'Thot bye would blarny the horns off a
cow's forehead if he cud spake her language.'"
"Oh! those were the good old days!" began the poet, hoping to touch a
sentimental spot in the old lady's memory.
"Yis, I know all thot," she interrupted. "You almost worried the poor
man to death."
"Well," said Moore, half seriously, "you are getting even with me now,
are n't you?"
"Niver mind thot. If you don't pay me, out you walk this day, me
bucko."
"Won't you let me run if I prefer it?"
"No impudence! When will you pay me?"
Moore turned to Buster, interrogatively.
"When, my lad, will it be most convenient for us to pay Mrs. Malone?" he
asked, gravely.
Buster scratched his head and pondered, but no answer was forthcoming,
so Moore decided to depend upon his own resources for a satisfactory
reply.
"After I am dressed," said he. "Come back in half an hour when I am
dressed and I 'll pay you."
"Very well, then," replied Mrs. Malone, "I 'll come up again in half an
hour by the clock. And no tricks. I 'm watching the hall, so you can't
get away. Do you hear? _I'm watching_ the hall."
Moore nodded his head approvingly.
"Quite right, Mrs. Malone," said he. "It's nice to know there is no
danger of the hall being stolen. Sure, what would we do without it?"
"Bah!" exclaimed the landlady, and with her head held scornfully high,
she marched out, slamming the door by way of rebuke to the levity of her
lodger.
"My heye!" exclaimed Buster, breathing more freely. "She 's more
wicious than usual to-day, Mr. Moore."
"I know, lad, but we can't blame her," replied the poet. "She is a good
old soul, and, as she says, it was her husband who first whacked
knowledge into me."
"Hi suppose 'ee were a fine scholard."
"Well," said Moore, "he was all right when he was sober, but he was
never sober that I remember. He was always in high spirits as a result
of the spirits being high in him. However, that has nothing to do with
the rent. Is the ladder that leads to the roof of the house next door
out the window?"
"Yessir," said Buster. "You can go hout the same way you did
yesterday."
"Good," said Moore, "then I won't have to disturb Mrs. Malone's watch on
the hall."
"No, sir, that you won't."
Moore looked at the boy gravely and got a smile in return which in
extent could compare not unfavorably with one of Lord Castlereagh's most
expansive yawns.
"Buster," said the poet, slowly and sadly, "there is something I feel it
my duty to say to you. Let us be in sober earnest for once, my lad."
"Yes, sir," assented the boy uneasily, stooping to pull the bulldog's
ragged ear. "Hat your service, Mr. Moore."
Moore was silent for a moment, and when he did speak it was with an
effort quite apparent.
"Buster," he said, softly, "it is time we came to an understanding. I
am head over ears in debt as you know. I owe every tradesman in the
neighborhood, and as many out of it as I could get introduced to. I am
a failure as a writer, bitter as it is for me to acknowledge it. Only a
little while longer, and it will be the streets and starvation, Buster."
"Don't, sir, don't," said the boy, a queer little break in his voice,
but Moore continued:
"I 'm wronging you in keeping you with me, laddie. Don't waste any more
of your time with me. I am only holding you back."
"Hand if Hi went, sir," asked the boy, pitifully, "wot would become hof
_you_?"
"I?" murmured Moore, choking back a sob. "There is n't much doubt, is
there?"
"Who 'd black your boots for you, hand 'eat your shaving water, hand
listen to your poetry, sir?" demanded Buster, wiping his eyes with his
shirt sleeve. "Blow me hif I 'ave n't a cold in me 'ead. My heyes is
runnin' somethink hawful hall day."
"It's best for you, Buster," insisted Moore, laying his hand
affectionately on the boy's shoulder.
"Hit ain't hanythink o' the kind, hand I won't go, sir," declared Buster
in an apologetically defiant tone. "No, sir, Hi _won't_ go."
"You won't, Buster?"
"Wot would that young lady hover at Drury Lane think o' me, hif I left
you halone?"
Moore sighed at the thought of her.
"She would n't care, Buster," he murmured.
"Wouldn't she? Then she 'as an 'eart of hice, that's wot she 'as, sir,
wid hall the beautiful pomes we 'ave sent 'er."
"But you are getting no wages, Buster," protested Moore.
"Well, sir," the boy answered, "Hi 'as a situation, Hi 'as. That's more
'n you 'as, his n't it?"
His voice died away in a snuffle, and he clutched his master by the arm
appealingly.
"You won't send me away?" he asked, piteously. "You won't, will you, Mr.
Moore."
Moore, touched to the heart at the lad's generous devotion, felt the
tears gathering in his eyes, but forced them back with an effort, though
his voice shook as he answered:
"My dear, brave, little fellow, how can I doubt Providence when there is
one such loyal heart near me? Stay, Buster. We will rise or fall
together."
As he spoke he held his hand out to the boy, who took it joyfully.
"Yessir, that we will, sir. You hand me, hand Lord Castlereagh."
The bulldog, as though understanding the situation, thrust his cold nose
in Moore's hand, and wagged his tail sympathetically as the poet crossed
to the fireplace after patting the ugly head, rough with the scars of
years of battling.
"Buster," continued Moore, without turning round.
"Yessir?"
"May God bless you, lad," said the poet, bowing his head on the
mantelpiece to hide the tears that would come in spite of him.
"Thank you, sir."
Then as Moore dropped into the old arm-chair beside the hearth, the boy,
resolved to wake him from his unhappy mood, burst into song, rendering
one of his master's most recent productions in a style worthy of a
scissor-grinding machine.
"Horf in the stilly night
H'ere slumber's chains 'as bound me,
The shadows hof hother days
Comes a-gathering round me."
Moore, roused to mental activity by the racket, sat bolt upright in
dismay.
"Buster!" he cried, reprovingly, but the boy continued at the top of his
lungs as though he had not heard.
"The smiles, the tears,
Hof boyish years--"
Bang! came a book against the door from across the room, missing Buster,
who had dodged, by a few inches.
"For Heaven's sake stop that caterwauling," cried Moore. "You put my
teeth on edge."
Lord Castlereagh became victim of a hallucination that the book thrown
by Moore was a rat of large size, and was fast shaking the life out of
it when Buster descended upon him and effected a rescue.
"Blow me, Lord Castlereagh, if you hain't a knocking the stuffin' hout
of 'The Rivals,'" he remarked reprovingly.
"Out of the rivals?" said Moore, with a laugh. "Faith, I 'd like to try
the same game on mine, Buster. It's the simplest way, after all; isn't
it, doggie?"
Lord Castlereagh became quite giddy, and, possessed by a puppyish fancy,
decided upon an immediate and vigorous pursuit of his stumpy tail as the
proceeding next in order, prosecuting his endeavor with such enthusiasm
that he collided violently with everything in the room, including Moore
and Buster, in the space of a moment, abandoning his enterprise only
when winded as a result of running broadside on against a wall.
"Will you heat your dinner now, sir?" asked Buster.
"Dinner? What have you?"
"Leaving hout the rest of the bill of fare, there 's a slice hof 'am
hand 'arf a loaf of bread, hand a little hof that Hirish wisky your
sister sent you from Hireland fer your birthday."
Rummaging in the cupboard, Buster speedily brought to light the little
stone jug containing what was left of the girl's gift, and as Moore
seated himself at the table, which also served as desk when needed, the
boy placed the whisky before him.
"Ah!" said the poet, his eyes glistening as he uncorked it. "That's the
real old stuff. That's what puts the life into a man, eh, lad?"
As he spoke, Moore held up the jug, and shutting an eye endeavored to
peer into it.
"There is n't much life left in it, Buster."
Then, taking a whiff, the poet smacked his lips, but placed the jug upon
the table, its contents untouched.
"No," he said, shaking his head, "it is too precious to waste. I must
save that, laddie."
"Yessir," said Buster, "fer some joyous hoccasion. 'Ave hanother smell,
sir?"
"No, no," exclaimed Moore, waving the boy away. "Get thee behind me,
Satan. Don't tempt me, Buster, for I am not over strong in that
direction. Cork it up tightly. They say it evaporates and it's too
good to have even a drop wasted."
Buster stowed the little jug in the depths of the cupboard and returned
briskly to where Moore was eating his dinner.
"Hi 've seen the shoemakers, sir," he announced.
"Ah, did you?"
"Yessir. The boots is hall done hand ready to be delivered."
"Good enough," commented Moore. "Did you appoint a time for them to
come?"
"Hi did that, sir. One will be 'ere at four, the hother at twenty
minutes past the hower," replied the youth, shaking his finger warningly
at Lord Castlereagh, who manifested more interest in the eatables than
was in strict accordance with good manners.
"First rate, Buster," said Moore, approvingly. "Is there any other
news?"
The boy hesitated a moment, but with an effort continued:
"Yessir, that ain't hall. Hi 'as a confession to make, sir."
"You have?" said Moore in a surprised tone. "Well, let's have it, my
lad."
"Yessir--"
"One moment, Buster," exclaimed the poet, an expression of alarm coming
over his face. "One moment in which to compose myself. Now I am
calmer. Tell me, Buster, tell me you have n't secretly married Mrs.
Malone?"
"Married _'ell_!" exclaimed the lad, his nose turning up in disdain at
the idea.
"'T would be much the same thing, I 'm thinking," chuckled Moore.
"Well, that is one peril escaped. Go on with your confession."
"You know that pome you sent me with to the _Times_, sir?" began Buster,
still ill at ease.
"'The Last Rose of Summer,' wasn't it?"
"Yessir. Hi did n't take it to the _Times_."
"You did n't? Why not, Buster?"
"Hit was this way, sir, just 'as Hi wuz a coming by Carlton 'Ouse, who
should Hi see stepping hout 'er carriage but Mrs. Fitz'erbert 'erself,
looking that sweet and beautiful has would make your mouth water."
"So there is a woman in it, after all?" observed Moore. "'T was ever
thus, Buster."
"Yessir, so wot does Hi do but rip horf the wrapper hand run hup to 'er
with the poem, hand sticks hit into 'er 'and. 'That's for you,' ses Hi,
hand tips me 'at hand is horf through the crowd like a hantelope."
"Nicely done, Buster," said Moore. "It may come in handy for her
ladyship. She can make curlpapers of it. Well, you are forgiven, my
boy."
"Thank you, sir," said Buster, greatly relieved.
"Was my name signed?"
"Yessir, hand your haddress too."
"Very good, Buster. Perhaps she 'll come to call and bring the Prince
of Wales with her."
"Well, sir," replied Buster, "hit's my hopinion has 'ow neither hov 'em
is one bit too good for hus."
"That sounds like treason, Buster."
"Does it, sir?" cried Buster, apparently delighted to hear it.
A knock at the door disturbed both servant and master, as well as
arousing suspicions of the worst nature in the bosom of Lord
Castlereagh, who growled ominously.
"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Moore, rising hurriedly from the table, which was
saved from an upset by the quick hand of Buster. "Is it the rent
again?"
Buster tiptoed to the door as the knock was repeated, and whispered,
after listening:
"Hit's all right, sir. Who is it?"
"It's Mr. Dyke," declared the person desirous of entering.
Moore's face fell.
"With another treasonable poem, I suppose," he muttered. "Worse luck."
"Wot does you listen to 'em for?" asked Buster, disgustedly, leaving the
door as Moore crossed to open it.
"Ah, that is the question," said the poet, softly.
"Hi knows," remarked Buster under his breath. "'Cos 'ee 's 'er father,
that's why."
"Come in, Mr. Dyke," said Moore, opening the door. "How are you to-day,
sir?"
"Oh, very well, Thomas," replied the old gentleman, entering with a
self-satisfied air. "How do you, my boy?"
Mr. Dyke's dress showed that he was enjoying prosperity. His coat and
hat had hardly lost their appearance of newness, while the rest of his
costume, though evidently not of recent purchase, was of good quality,
greatly exceeding in costliness the apparel in which he was wont to garb
himself in Ireland.
"I have nothing to complain of so far as health is concerned, Mr. Dyke.
Buster, a chair for the gentleman."
"I have come to read you a poem, Thomas."
"Indeed?" said Moore. "Buster, two chairs for the gentleman."
"You will have your joke, Thomas," observed Mr. Dyke, with an indulgent
smile, as he seated himself.
"I have n't much else, sir," said Moore, "that's why I value it so
highly. How is Bessie, sir?"
"She is well and working hard on her new part. The new piece is produced
at Drury Lane in a week."
"I know," said Moore. "Bessie is getting on, is n't she?"
"Indeed she is, Thomas," replied Mr. Dyke, proudly. "The manager says if
she does as well as he expects in the next piece, he will allow her to
play Lydia in a revival of Mr. Sheridan's great comedy, 'The Rivals.'"
"So they revive Dicky's play? They do well, for they have had nothing
since to equal it except 'The School for Scandal.'"
The old gentleman cleared his throat modestly.
"Quite true, Thomas, and for that very reason I am preparing to write a
comedy myself."
"Bravo, sir. Surely it is a shame only one Irishman should wear laurels
for play-writing."
"Do you know Mr. Sheridan, Thomas?"
"Not I, sir, though both of us received our education at the same school
some thirty years apart. Dr. Whyte taught us both, and admits even now
that he considered Sheridan but little better than a dunce."
"So I have heard Mr. Sheridan himself declare," observed Mr. Dyke. "A
great man, Thomas, a great man."
"You know him, sir?" asked Moore, a shade of envy for a moment
perceptible in his voice.
"I met him a fortnight ago at Sir Percival's house. Needless to say I
was honored, Thomas."
"Quite needless, sir. Was he sober?"
"Part of the time," answered Mr. Dyke, reluctantly.
"Ah," said Moore, "that must have been early in the evening. Does
Bessie know him?"
"Yes, Thomas. He was so kind as to give her his personal opinion of the
airs and graces suitable as business for the character of Lydia, for he
will have no one even mention the possibility of her not obtaining the
part."
"Look here now," said Moore, quickly. "You just bear in mind what sort
of a killer that same gay old lad is with the ladies. I 'll not have
him making love to Bessie, if I have to tell him so on the street. He
is an old rake, sir, and there is no more dangerous man in London, for
all his years."
"Tut, tut, Thomas," said Mr. Dyke in benign reproof. "Mr. Sheridan is a
married man."
"I know," replied Moore, doubtfully, "but I have often heard that they
are the worst kind. By the way, how is that distinguished
philanthropist, Sir Percival Lovelace?"
"You must not sneer at him, Thomas. Bessie and I owe everything to
him."
"Never fear. He expects to be paid one way or another," growled Moore,
full of suspicions but absolutely lacking in proof.
"Thanks to his influence, my verses are much in demand. No doubt you
have seen a number of them published?"
"I have that, and read them eagerly. Ah, you too are getting up in the
world, Mr. Dyke."
"I flatter myself it is so," replied the old gentleman pompously.
"Shall I speak a word to Sir Percival in your favor, Thomas? He could
help you much, being, as you know, an intimate friend of the Prince
himself."
"Thank you, no," answered Moore, savagely. "I 'll get where I aim
without his assistance or rot where I am contentedly. You don't see Sir
Percival as I do, sir."
"Evidently not," replied Mr. Dyke, blandly. "I find in him a firm and
powerful friend, who has exerted himself much in my behalf, while you
regard him as--"
"My view of him is n't fit for such lips as yours, Mr. Dyke,"
interrupted Moore. "We will say no more about him. I only hope you may
be correct in your opinion of the gentleman."
"Have you heard the news from home?" asked Mr. Dyke, polishing his
glasses, preparatory to unrolling the manuscript, which he had placed
upon the table between them.
"Not I, sir. It's a fortnight since I have heard from my mother, though
I write to her twice a week. Father is ailing, no doubt. He is getting
on in years, you know. But then their news is only of Dublin. I have
heard nothing from Dalky at all."
"Winnie Farrell was married to Captain Arbuckle last Wednesday week."
Moore gave a start.
"You don't say so, sir? Are you sure?"
"Sure as man can be. They are off on their honeymooning now. I had a
letter from Squire Farrell himself. By the way, Terence has come to
London and is studying law."
"I hope the rascal will keep out of my way," said Moore, viciously. "A
sneak, if ever there was one."
"You quarrelled with him, Thomas?"
"I did, sir, and licked him well, too. Tell me, Mr. Dyke, is Bessie
still angry with me?"
The old gentleman sighed and put on his glasses.
"I am afraid so, Thomas," he said, gravely. "She never mentions your
name, though I do my best to interest her in your doings. Now for the
poem, lad. It is a satire, Thomas, a satire on the Prince of Wales. Oh,
I cook him to a turn, Thomas. Ah, how he would squirm if I dared to
have it published."
Moore leaned over the table and took the manuscript from his guest in a
manner more vigorous than polite.
"If you did have it published, you 'd be dropped by society like a hot
potato, and Bessie would lose her position at Drury Lane," he said.
"You would be in a nice fix then, would n't you, Robin Dyke, Esquire?"
"If worst came to worst, even then I would still have the pension
guaranteed me by Sir Percival," replied the elder poet, obstinately.
"You would," assented Moore, emphatically, "_for about five minutes_.
Mr. Dyke, Irishman and patriot that you are, you do wrong every time you
write a line that compromises your position here in London. Thanks to
the efforts of Sir Percival, you have been nicely received; your verses
are purchased and printed; success such as you have never known before
is yours, and yet in spite of all this that old taint in you leads you
to write in secret poems which would be your ruin if they ever saw the
light. Good God, sir! Have you no thought of Bessie at all? You must
think of Bessie. _You must_."
Mr. Dyke, thus forcibly rebuked, grew red in the face, and seemed for a
moment about to hotly point out the disregard paid by his young friend
to the difference in their ages, but his better nature prevailed as his
sense of justice showed him plainly that Moore was in the right; so,
after a short silence, he accepted his host's criticism in the same
spirit it was offered.
"You are right, Thomas," said he, reluctantly, "quite right, my lad; but
remember that I never read such verses to any one but you. I must admit
I thoroughly enjoy giving occasional vent to my real feelings. It's
like throwing a load off my heart, Thomas."
"I know how you feel," replied Moore, sagely, "but take my advice, and
throw off no more loads that way."
"Thomas, I won't. I promise I 'll not write another."
"Good, Mr. Dyke," exclaimed Moore, gladly. "It is delighted I am to
hear you say that. Ah, sir, if I were where you are, I 'd run no such
danger, I can tell you."
"Shall I read it to you, Thomas?" asked the old gentleman, resolved to
extract all possible enjoyment from this bit of treason, since it was to
have no successor.
"Leave it with me," suggested Moore, endeavoring to postpone its perusal
to the last moment possible. "I 'll read it to myself and study your
method thoroughly. It will be a greater help to me that way, you know,
and I am anxious to learn, sir."
Dyke gave a flattered cough or two and rose to go.
"You must not be discouraged, Thomas," he said in a kindly patronizing
tone, "your verses have merit, real merit. I 'll stake my reputation
upon it."
"It's kind of you to say that," said Moore, gratefully, though in secret
vastly amused, "a successful man like you."
"Oh, I mean it, Thomas, I mean it. Why, some day I 'd not be surprised
if you were rated as a poet almost as high as Robin Dyke."
"You don't mean it, sir?"
"Almost, I said _almost_," repeated the old gentleman, fearful lest he
had raised hope too high in his fellow author's breast.
"I heard you," said Moore, dryly, while Buster and Lord Castlereagh
shared their indignation at the fireplace to which they had retired.
"I must get along now," announced Mr. Dyke, as though desirous of gently
breaking the news of his approaching departure. "Oh, you will laugh
your sides sore when you read that poem, Thomas."
"Will I?" asked Moore, doubtfully.
Mr. Dyke turned at the door with a chuckle.
"I almost envy you the fun, my lad. Oh, it's monstrous witty."
And fairly shaking with merriment at the mental contemplation of his own
humor, the old gentleman toddled down the stairs, quite at peace with
the world at large and even more satisfied with himself.
"My best love to Bessie," Moore called after him, leaning over the
banisters.
"Have you the rint?" came from below in the unmistakably Hibernian
accents of Mrs. Malone.
"No, I have n't, have you?" shouted the disgusted poet, and hastening
back into the room, he shut the door.
"Rank halmost as 'igh as 'im," exclaimed Buster, indignantly. "Well Hi
likes 'is himpudence. Say, Mr. Moore, Hi thinks that hold cove is
daffy."
"They say genius is akin to madness," replied Moore, stowing the poem
away in the drawer of the table, where he kept many productions of his
own.
"Then 'ee 's been achin' a long time," replied the boy, misunderstanding
the meaning of his master's remark.
Moore laughed gently and did not correct him.
_Chapter Ten_
_IN WHICH THE LANDLADY IS PLAYED A TRICK_
In the meantime Mrs. Malone, having pounded upstairs, halted in front of
the door, not from politeness, but to regain her breath. Having paused,
she decided to knock, unconsciously mindful of Buster's scathing rebuke.
"Who is there?" asked Buster.
"Me, for me money," responded the landlady, determinedly. "Is there any
sin in asking for what is due me?"
"As much sin as there is use," muttered Moore. "I can't go over the roof
like this, Buster. I have it. Tell her I am taking a bath."
"Yessir," said the boy, starting towards the door as Moore sought
shelter with pail and pitcher of water behind an old screen standing in
the corner of the room.
"My _cold_ bath, Buster," whispered Moore.
"Yessir."
"And, Buster?"
"Yessir."
"You get out when she comes in."
"Hi will, sir," responded Buster preparing to open the door.
"Am I to die of old age in my own hall?" demanded Mrs. Malone, waxing
indignant.
"You 'as your choice hof complaints, _madam_," replied Buster, opening
the door.
"You limb!" said she, misunderstanding the lad's unusual politeness. "I
'll not have any half-baked omadhaun cursing me."
"Curse you, Mrs. Malone? Himpossible, hon my word of honer. W'y Hi 'as
narthin but blessin's fer you, _sweetheart_."
Mrs. Malone aimed a blow at Buster's ear, and, as he dodged
successfully, swung half around with the misspent energy of her effort.
Buster sought safety in the hall, but thrust his head in the doorway.
"Mr. Moore his taking 'is cold bawth," he announced, loudly.
A splashing of water coming from behind the screen corroborated the
lad's statement.
"Taking his bath, is he?" said Mrs. Malone. "It's the only thing he can
take widout getting arresthed."
"Hit's 'is _hown_, Mrs. Malone."
"Are you sure of thot?"
"W'y h'are you so suspicious, Mrs. Malone? 'Ave _you_ missed one?"
"Niver you mind prying into the secrets of me toilet. I 'll have you to
understand--"
At this moment a ragged towel, soaking wet as the result of its
immersion in the pail, sailed over the top of the screen and landed with
a gurgling squash, fair and square on the back of the landlady's neck,
dampening her collar and best cap so thoroughly that the starched linen
immediately subsided into floppy limpness.
"Merciful powers!" ejaculated Mrs. Malone, jumping a foot at least.
"Phwat 's thot?"
Buster fled downstairs fearful of impending massacre, while Moore behind
the screen began giving an imitation of a man in the throes of an
ice-cold bath, bursting into musicless song punctuated with exclamations
of discomfort and shivery comments on his condition.
"She is far from the land,"
he shouted, slopping the water from pitcher to pail and back again,
adding sotto voce, "But not from the landlady, worse luck--Oh! I 'll
die of the cold! I know I will. Oh, mother, it's a cake of ice your
beloved Thomas is fast becoming.
"Where her young hero sleeps,
--Only her young hero is freezing instead of sleeping. Help! Help!
Whew-w-w! Murder, murder, I 'm dying of the chill!"
Mrs. Malone in speechless rage had unwound the wet towel from around her
neck.
"You divil!" she remarked, with the calmness of despair. "You
red-handed rapscallion. You 've spiled me best Sunday
Get-Up-and-Go-to-Early-Morning-Mass-Cap. Oh, you haythen!--you turk!
Hanging is too good for the likes of you."
Moore, bawling and singing at the top of his lungs, heard nothing of the
landlady's desperation.
"And lovers around her are sighing,
But coldly she turns--
Faith, the dear girl must have been taking a cold bath herself, I 'm
thinking. Oh, murder! No! For, if that were so, how could the lovers
be around her? No, indeed, no lady decent enough for Tom Moore to
immortalize in song would be guilty of such immodesty, I am sure.
"But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.