Buster, you devil, bring me the soap."

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

"You won't?"

"Not I."

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

deserve for insubordination."

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

"What?" exclaimed Moore, as though suspecting her presence for the first

time. "Are _you_ there, Mrs. Malone? Whew! but this water is cold."

His head, with hair, wet and tousled, sticking up every which way,

appeared above the top of the screen, being elevated just enough to keep

his shirt band out of sight, thus preventing the betrayal of his

subterfuge to the landlady.

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

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

"So am I, Mrs. Malone. We are twins in that respect. Me teeth are

chattering as you can see-e-e-e!"

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

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

to death I am."

"I hope you are; when you die you 'll git a change," answered Mrs.

Malone, sitting down by the table, decisively.

"Are you going to stay?" asked Moore.

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

"You will, eh?"

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

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

dressed, am I?"

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

neck with her handkerchief.

"Well," responded the poet, "you _will_ know, if you don't get out of

here mighty quick, I can tell you. I 'll not be turned into a lump of

ice for any old lady, Irish or no Irish. Whe-ee! Oh-h-h! G-r-r-r-h!

When I get into the market the price of ice will drop a penny a pound."

"I wants me rint," reiterated the landlady, quite unconcerned as to her

lodger's personal temperature.

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

desperate.

"I 've no doubt you have as much of it there as anywhere," replied Mrs.

Malone, unconsciously hitting the nail on the head.

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

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

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

"Not I, Tom Moore."

"Well, there is one figure you 'll know more about if you don't skip,

and that is the one of Thomas Moore, Esquire."

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

"All right, Mrs. Malone. My frozen blood be upon your head. No, by St.

Patrick, I 'll not ice myself even to oblige you. Out you go, my lady.

One--two--three. Will you go?"

"Not I, sorr!"

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

"Divil a fut will I."

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

"I 'm not, sorr."

"Eighteen--nineteen--!"

"Oh-h!" cried Mrs. Malone, intimidated at last by the poet's

determination, "I will, Misther Moore, I will."

And gathering up her skirts she rushed for the door, reaching it just as

Buster entered, the collision sending that young gentleman sprawling on

the floor.

"Thank ye very kindly, ma'am," he remarked, saluting her in military

fashion from his lowered altitude.

"Thot for your t'anks," she sniffed, and made her exit, signifying her

scorn and dissatisfaction by the vigor with which she shut the door.

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

"Oh, Buster, my boy," he said breathlessly, "there is nothing like cold

water for starting the circulation. What would I do without my tubbing?"

"She 'll be back hagain, sir," said Buster, sighing at the thought. "Hi

wish 'er hold man was halive. 'Ee would n't be so 'ard hon us, would

'ee?"

"Well, I am not so sure about that," answered Moore. "He was very fond

of the bottle, was Mr. Malone. Usually he 'd not get up till noon,

leaving us to fight and play around the schoolroom till he got over the

effects of the night before. Then he 'd wallop the lot of us for waking

him up so early."

"Was she fond of 'im?"

"She was, Buster! Much more, probably, than she would have been if he

had been a better husband."

"Just himagine Bridget Malone a-courtin'. D'ye suppose has 'ow the hold

gal remembers it, sir?"

"I would n't be surprised, Buster. Such memories grow dearer as old age

approaches. By the Saints, lad, you 've given me an idea!"

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

"You have fixed it so I can stand her off for the rent or my name is not

Thomas Moore," answered the poet cheerfully. "We 'll not have to move

this day, Buster."

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

we, pup?"

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

voice.

"Hof corse," said Buster, "when worst comes to worst we can keep the

place by setting Lord Castlereagh to watch the stairs. No landlady hor

bailiff wud hever git by 'im, sir."

"That would be what is known as a dogged resistance of authority," said

Moore, chuckling at his bad joke. "We must n't come to that, lad."

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

Moore returned to his temporarily abandoned repast and speedily ate his

fill, Buster and the dog sharing alike in the debris, which was more

than enough to afford satisfaction to them both.

"Now, I 'll try to work," said Moore, arming himself with a huge quill,

the feathered end of which being well chewed, seemed indicative of

having furnished food for reflection to its owner in the immediate past.

He sat down at the table, scrupulously cleaned and dusted by Buster

after he had removed the dishes, and, drawing a blank sheet of paper

towards him, dipped the pen in the ink, preparatory to calling upon his

inspiration. But that was as far as he got, for the desired idea failed

to materialize.

"Hang it!" he said, throwing down the pen in disgust, "I can't write a

line. How can I expect to when nothing is in my mind but Bessie? Ah,

Bessie, Bessie, you 've taken my heart; now you rob me of my fancy. It

will be my life next, if I 'm not careful."

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

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

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

"Do you think so, Buster?"

"No, sir, but you does. W'y, sir, gals gives me pains. Hi would n't

swap one paw of Lord Castlereagh for the 'ole sex. Wot good is they?

They can't fight--"

"It is evident, Buster, that you have never been married," interrupted

Moore. "However, continue with your oration. I am interested."

"His yer?" said Buster, much delighted. "Well that his fine. Hi 'll

continyer. They can't fight, that is not with their fisties, hat least

not hin accordance with the rules o' the ring. They is timid, hand

selfish! My Lord, hain't they selfish! Halways thinking about 'ow they

look; hand eating!--W'y, sir, a girl is nine-tenths happetite and the

rest 'unger. Clothes and vittles his all they thinks is worth while,

hand the devotion hand effort to please with wich we honors them hain't

naught but about 'arf wot they thinks they deserves. A gal, sir, thinks

has 'ow she does the earth a service, w'en she puts 'er footsy down

hupon it. 'Arf of 'em himagines they consecrates the ground they walk

on. Hexcuse me w'en it comes to gals. Hi could n't 'ave 'em squallin'

and complainin' hany where Hi 'm at. Hand then, sir, they is sich

fearsome liars. They never 'ad no hintroduction to truth, sir. W'y they

can honly tell it w'en they 'ears it, hand w'en they repeats it they

halways dresses it hup with himaginations like they 'd pile fancy

clothes hon their hown hanatomy previous to hattending some bloomin'

masquerade. Facts halways assumes a disguise hafter a hincounter wid

females. Believe 'em we could n't and we would n't, would we, doggie?"

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

shoestring.

"Quite right, pupsy, you halways agrees with me; there, sir, that's one

thing a wife won't do, his n't it?"

"I wish I could forswear dependence as you have done, Buster," said

Moore with a sigh, "but it's no use. I have n't the strength of mind.

By the way, lad, did you sell the empty wine-bottles?"

"No, sir, but Hi'll tend to it very soon, sir. Hi'll get 'em hout right

away," replied Buster, suiting the action to the word. From the

cupboard he took six bottles which once upon a time, though not very

recently, had contained sherry. These he stood upon a stool and was

about to ransack the depths of the closet in quest of more when there

came a rapping at the door.

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

opening the door a little.

"Tell Mr. Dabble I didn't order any wine," said Moore, crossly. "Will I

never get started on this poem?"

Buster conveyed the mentioned information to the clerk and received a

reply in return that he felt justified in delivering.

"Mr. Dabble says has 'ow hit's a cursed lucky thing you did n't horder

hanythink, and has 'ow it would n't do you hany good hif you hordered

till Kingdom Come, sir."

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

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

"No, Buster, I can't blame Mr. Porter for being angry, for it's a dog's

age since I have paid him anything," answered Moore.

"Shall Hi let 'im hin?"

"Not yet, Buster. First ask him what _ails the stout Mr. Porter_?"

Buster snorted with merriment and repeated his master's question to the

fellow in the hall.

"'Ee says has 'ow you knows confounded well wot hails 'im. 'Ee 's got

no 'ead for hewmer, sir. Better let me mash 'im, Mr. Moore. The

practice hand hexercise would do us both good."

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

solemnity."

"Step hin 'ere, you sour-faced cockney," said Buster, throwing open the

door. "Turn your noble footsies hin this direction, han don't kick the

nap hoff the brussels carpet with your feet stools or Hi will lift you

one in the phisomy, which his 'igh Henglish fer that ugly face o' yourn,

you willain."

_Chapter Eleven_

_TOM MOORE RECEIVES VISITS FROM TWO COBBLERS AND A CLERK_

Mr. Dabble was a slender, sharp-featured young man of six-and-twenty.

His face was sour and suspicious, an expression that was heightened by

his wispy yellow hair that bristled up not unlike the comb on a rooster.

He was long and lank, and afflicted with an overweight of good opinion

as to his own merits which may have been the cause of his stooping

shoulders.

After giving Buster a squelching glance, intended to reduce that

impudent youth to a proper degree of humility (a result which it

conspicuously failed to produce), this worthy person entered briskly,

carrying on his arm a basket covered with an old cloth. Dabble believed

in system, and in this instance having an order of sherry to deliver in

the neighborhood took advantage of his being in the vicinity to dun the

poet for his long over-due account.

Setting down the basket on the floor near the door, the clerk drew a

bill from his vest pocket and advanced with it to the table at which

Moore was pretending to be busily scribbling.

"Mr. Dabble, sir," announced Buster.

Moore did not look up.

"Tell Dabble to go to the devil," he remarked, absent-mindedly,

continuing his writing.

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

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

on some other relative."

"My employer says it is high time you paid this bill," persisted the

clerk, thrusting the statement of Moore's account beneath the poet's

nose, as Buster quietly investigated the contents of the basket the

newcomer had brought with him.

"You must n't believe all you hear, Mr. Dabble," replied Moore. "Many

casual statements are grossly incorrect. Really, the aggregate amount

of misinformation current these days is most appalling. Just consider

it for a moment if you have never given it thought before."

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

"If you had more consideration for time--that is my time--and its value,

you would not be delaying the completion of this poem in this manner,"

Moore answered, laying down the quill with a sigh of endurance. "Sit

down, Mr. Dibble."

"My name is Dabble."

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

"Dabble, sir, Dabble."

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

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

"Indeed, Mr. Dibble? Let me make a suggestion then. You should take

time, build a flying machine and make money. Then you would n't have to

bother me for mine."

As Dabble stood for a moment quite disconcerted by the poet's remarkable

advice, Buster, with exquisite care that no noise should be made to

frustrate his design, extracted two of the full bottles from the

deserted basket, and with equal caution replaced them with two of the

empty ones he had set out preparatory to offering them for sale in the

neighborhood.

So carefully did Buster execute this manoeuvre, that the attention of

neither the clerk nor Moore was attracted to his performance, which was

successfully repeated by the lad until only one full bottle remained in

the basket, this being left deliberately for a certain purpose, not

because the opportunity to purloin it had not been afforded him.

"Do you intend to pay this bill, sir?" demanded Dabble, waking up to the

fact that he had been made fun of, and waxing angry accordingly.

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

"To-day?"

"No, I never pay bills on Tuesday."

"What day _do_ you pay them on?"

"I usually liquidate all indebtedness on the twenty-ninth of February.

If you will call around then I will be pleased to settle and may perhaps

give you another order. Now you really must excuse me, as I am obliged

to finish this sonnet without further delay."

"February is too far off," objected the clerk, not comprehending the

space of time that must necessarily elapse before the date mentioned by

Moore would be reached by the calendar, for this was not a leap-year.

"Well, then, pay it yourself, Mr. Dibble, if you are not satisfied with

my way of doing it. Perhaps that would be the best way, after all."

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

"Hang it, Dibble, you make more noise with your beak than you do with

your bill," exclaimed Moore, trying indignation for a change. "You 'll

have me out of my mind, if you don't look out."

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

"Out of mind, Mr. Dibble?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then if it has no mind it is unreasonable, and I never pay unreasonable

bills. Buster, the door for Mr. Dibble."

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

Moore waved Buster back as that pugnacious youth was about to lay

violent hands on the clerk.

"Your father is responsible for your name. He is much to blame, Dibble.

If I were you, I 'd sue the old man for damages."

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

clerk, abandoning hope of collection.

"You must be a mind reader," observed Moore. "You could make a fortune

exhibiting your gifts in public, sir. Now, my dear fellow, before you

go, just to show there is no hard feeling between us personally, even if

I owe your employer, have a drink with me."

"But," began Dabble.

"I 'll take no denial," said Moore, winningly. "Come, sir, you shan't

refuse me. Buster, bring forth the precious liquor and we will do honor

to our guest."

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

lie incidentally.

"Well," said Moore, with a laugh, "I never drop a drink, so we cancel

that objection. We will have a tiny wet together socially as two honest

gentlemen should. We will drink health to Mrs. Dibble and all the

little Dubbles."

"There is no little Dubbles, sir," answered the clerk, mollified in

spite of himself by Moore's charming manner.

"What? No twins? That is an oversight, sir. Oh, well, we 'll be

sanguine, Dibble, for there is no telling what may occur in the future.

Accidents will happen in the best-regulated families, and I am sure

yours is one of the best, so cheer up and don't despair. Buster, you

devil, what is keeping you?"

"Hall ready, sir, hall ready," replied the boy, who, having extracted

the cork from one of the stolen bottles, had carefully wrapped a cloth

around it, so that the label would not betray his secret to the enemy

while he was filling the glasses.

Moore, taking for granted that the beverage decanted by Buster was the

poteen he had previously denied himself, watched Dabble eagerly as that

gentleman raised his glass to his lips, expecting the usual cough and

sputter to follow the first swallow of the fiery liquid. In this he was

disappointed, for the clerk drank calmly and with evident enjoyment.

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

"Whisky, sir? This is sherry," answered the clerk, "and quite a

respectable quality too."

"How 's that?" asked Moore, in surprise; then, sipping the contents of

his own glass, he found that his guest was quite right. Meanwhile

Buster, from the concealment afforded him behind Mr. Dabble, was making

frantic gesticulations to his master, finally succeeding in catching his

eye.

"What ails the boy?" muttered Moore, rarely puzzled to understand how

his empty cupboard could have furnished the refreshment Buster had just

put before them.

"Eh?" said Mr. Dabble, sipping his sherry in a manner that gave the lie

to his recent announcement of total abstinence.

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

health, sir."

"It is very fair sherry, Mr. Moore, very fair," declared the clerk,

condescendingly, "but pardon me if I say it is hardly up to our level of

quality."

"Is that so, Mr. Dabble?"

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

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

cover."

And he tiptoed out of the doorway unnoticed.

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

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

rising as he spoke.

"By all means do so."

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

"Gracious!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so late. I have n't a

moment to spare. Good-day, sir.

"Good-day," said Moore politely, as the clerk picked up the basket, not

noticing the difference in weight in the hurry of the moment, and

opening the door closed by Buster in making his escape, nodded a last

good-bye to the poet before going.

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

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

certainly a wonder."

A tremendous crash was heard in the hall below. Moore ran to the door,

and leaning over the banister sought to discover the cause of the racket

as up the stairs came Buster, running lightly in his stockinged feet as

any cat. Moore seized him by the arm.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"Mr. Dabble 'as fell downstairs, sir," replied the boy cheerfully. "His

n't hit hawful. You never 'eard such langwidge. Hi 'me shocked, Hi

am."

"You little devil, you tripped him up."

"'Ee can't prove it, so wot's the hodds if Hi did?" asked Buster, not at

all abashed at his master's accusation. "Hi think 'ee must 'ave fell

hover Mrs. Malone, sir."

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

"No," replied Mrs. Malone, from far below. "He's not hur-ted, but he

has broken all his bottles and the stairs is running over with sherry."

"I 'd like to lick up the stairs," answered the poet. "Give him my

sympathy, Mrs. Malone, and tell him I send my love to the twins."

"Have you the rint, Misther Moore?"

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

"Are you going to dress to-day?"

"I am surprised at your indelicacy in asking such an immodest question

of an innocent and unmarried young man," replied Moore reprovingly. "If

you keep on I 'll feel it my duty to mention your behavior to Father

O'Houlihan. Oh, it is shocked he would be, Mrs. Malone."

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

me."

"I don't know whether the good man will be safe in your hands after this

morning's revelation, Mrs. Malone. He don't look over strong."

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

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

own apartment.

"Buster!"

"Yes, sir!"

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

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

reassuringly.

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

"Hi left 'im one full bottle, so hif 'ee should 'appen to fall hon 'is

way downstairs hit would be hall right. Hi 've got hall 'ee 'ad with 'im

hexcept that one bottle wich Hi feels has 'ow hit was a cruel shame to

waste."

As the boy spoke he threw open the cupboard and exhibited his plunder

neatly arranged in two rows on the middle shelf.

Moore swore gently in his astonishment and sat down.

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

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

"Well, there is no use in sending it back, I suppose. It's six more

bottles to be added to the bill when I pay it."

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

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

glass together."

* * * * *

Promptly at four a dapper little person, who moved with such lively and

mannered steps, even when walking at his slowest gait, that his general

demeanor was highly suggestive of a dancing master in business hours,

entered the house which was honored by the presence of Thomas Moore and

his faithful servant. This individual was a cobbler named Hypocrates

Slink, who hammered and sewed leather in a little store perhaps a

hundred yards farther down the street than the house presided over by

Mrs. Malone. He had red hair and a nose gently tinted with another

shade of the same color. His eyes were small, blue, and not entirely

guiltless of a squint; in fact, his chief rival in the trade was wont to

describe him as a cock-eyed impostor. This, being repeated to Mr. Slink,

had caused him to make remarks of a decidedly acrimonious nature in

reply, and as these had in their turn been faithfully carried to the

object that had drawn them forth, a bitter feud was engendered, the

result being that the neighborhood was frequently provided with

amusement by the verbal combats of the two cobblers, for, while physical

encounters seemed pending, as yet there had none taken place.

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 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--"

"_When_ did I say I 'd pay, Buster?"

"When you tried on the other boot, sir."

"Well, that is a simple matter, lad. I _won't_ try 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 Twelve_

_IN WHICH THE POET WARBLES TO MRS. MALONE_

Rat-tat-tat!

"Are you dressed, Mister Moore?" asked Mrs. Malone, her ear against the

crack of the door.

Moore winked at Buster and motioned him to admit the landlady, who

entered with her accustomed independence of carriage, apparently

expecting and prepared for contention.

"Ah, ha," said she, triumphantly. "You didn't thrick me this time, Tom

Moore."

"On the contrary, I have been patiently waiting for your coming, Mrs.

Malone," replied the poet, politely.

The landlady looked incredulous.

"Where is the rint?" she inquired, belligerently.

"Here in my dressing gown," answered Moore, exhibiting a long tear in

the garment mentioned. "A big rip it is, too. Have you your needle

handy?"

"I wants no fooling, Misther Thomas Moore," declared Mrs. Malone,

drawing her bushy brows low in a ferocious frown.

"Were you ever in love, Mrs. Malone?"

"Thot is none of your business."

"You forget your husband was my first instructor," said Moore,

reproachfully.

"Well, I 'll be your last teacher, and I 'll give you instructions in

how to get up and get out wid your pile o' kit, bag and baggage, unless

I gets me rint."

"You are Irish, Mrs. Malone."

"Niver mind thot, sorr."

"Sure, I don't mind, if you don't," replied Moore, "and if Ireland don't

object there will be no discussion on that point at all."

"Whot are yez going to do? Thot's whot I wants to know, Mr. Moore? Is

it rint or run, me fine bucko?"

"Won't you sit down, Mrs. Malone?"

"I 'll not sit down, I 'll stand up."

"Well, will you stand up till you get the rent, Mrs. Malone?"

"I 'll sit down," replied the landlady, suiting the action to the words

so vigorously that the attic rattled.

"Do you know, Mrs. Malone, I 've written you a song?"

"I wants no song. I have no notes in me voice."

"Faith," said Moore, with a chuckle, "we are alike then, for I 've none

in my pocket."

"I wants me rint."

"Be easy, Mrs. Malone," said Moore, in a conciliatory tone and forthwith

broke into song:

"Oh, the days are gone when beauty bright

My heart's chain wove--"

"Where is the rint?" interrupted the irate landlady, but Moore continued

his singing, at the same time helping himself to a seat on the table

beside her.

"When all my dreams by day or night

Were love, still love--"

"The rint is no dream," exclaimed Mrs. Malone, "and by gorry, I 'll have

it, me canary-bird."

"New hopes may bloom,

And days may come

Of milder, calmer beam--"

"Not till I have ivery penny due me," asserted Mrs. Malone, turning a

deaf ear to the pathos and sentiment with which the poet's beautiful

voice was investing the simple words of the song.

"But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As Love's young dream--"

"I 'll prefer the rint a t'ousand times," observed Mrs. Malone, quite

unaffected.

"No, there's nothing half so sweet in life

As Love's young dream."

[Illustration: "There's nothing half so sweet in life as Love's young

dream."]

As the words of the song died away in a sigh of sentimental melody,

Moore leaned forward and touched the old woman on the shoulder, hoping

that he had struck some responsive chord of memory in her recollections

of long-departed youth, but he was doomed to disappointment, for she

smote the table with one calloused fist and called upon the saints to

witness and sustain her resolve to accept nothing but the whole amount

of the money due her.

Nothing daunted, Moore slipped off the table and standing behind his

determined creditor began another verse, throwing even more feeling into

his voice as he proceeded:

"No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot

Which first love traced--"

"I 'll have that rint, Tom Moore, song or no song," interrupted Mrs.

Malone, but her tone was not quite so quarrelsome as before, and Moore

from this drew encouragement that lent double sympathy to his music as

he continued:

"Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On memory's waste--"

"I wants me rint," remarked Mrs. Malone, but her voice had lost its

assertive defiance.

"'T was odor fled

As soon as shed--"

"I 'll have me rint, Tom Moore," said the landlady plaintively.

"'Twas morning's winged dream;

'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again,

On life's dull stream--"

An audible sniff came from beneath the frill of Mrs. Malone's cap and

she cleared her throat noisily. Moore leaned over her and tenderly and

slowly breathed forth the last words of his song, the mournful cadences

stealing from his lips sweet and low and laden with tears, supremely

touching in their plaintive harmony, for he sang as though it was to the

hopeless love that filled his heart's innermost recess that he now gave

utterance.

"No, there 's _nothing_ half so sweet in life

As Love's young dream."

The last words died away, and for a moment the old attic was silent.

Then Mrs. Malone rose from her seat with a stifled sob, and, wiping her

eyes, started toward the door.

"And the rent, Mrs. Malone?" asked Moore, timidly.

"You--you rapscallion," she said, brokenly, "to make an old woman like

me cry. Ah, bless you, Tom Moore, for it's the old days you 've brought

back to me."

"But the rent?"

"May your voice never grow less, Tom Moore. You--You--!"

"Well, Mrs. Malone?"

"You have me rint Satherday or there 'll be throuble."

And, blowing her nose vigorously, the relenting landlady left the attic

to its inhabitants.

"'O-o-ray! 'O-o-ray!" shouted Buster in a hoarse whisper, seizing Lord

Castlereagh by the front paws and dancing around in a circle in his

delight. "Till Saturday, till Saturday! 'O-oray! 'O-oray!"

"Buster, from now on, we can never complain of these apartments as

expensive," said Moore, fanning himself by the window.

"No, sir? Why not?" asked Buster.

"Because I got them for a song," replied the poet. "A cursed bad joke,

Buster, even if I did make it myself."

_Chapter Thirteen_

_TOM MOORE HAS A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT AND AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR_

Mrs. Malone opened the door suddenly, accompanying this action with a

vigorous gesture intended to represent an apology for the liberty she

took in omitting the knock. By this it can be easily seen that under

Buster's tuition the manners of the landlady were improving.

"A gentleman to see you, Misther Moore."

"Show the gentleman in, Mrs. Malone," said the poet, adding in an

undertone to Buster, "This must be a reception we are giving. We have

joined society without knowing it, lad."

"This way, sorr," announced Mrs. Malone, with an elephantine duck, this

being the best imitation nature permitted her to give of a courtesy.

Immediately a little, square-shaped man with an expressionless face from

which protruded two beady eyes in much the same manner that raisins

brighten and decorate the exterior surface of a plum-pudding, entered,

striding as pompously as though his height were considerably over six

feet instead of but a trifle under five. His face was clean shaven and

consistently grave and solemn down to the lower lip, where his chin made

a sudden and undignified attempt to obtain complete concealment in the

folds of his neckcloth. However, all in all, he was a neat little man,

though far from a beauty.

"Er--er--ahem," he began with a little cough, meanwhile looking back and

forth from Moore to Buster as Mrs. Malone waddled out of the attic,

"_which_ is Mr. Thomas Moore?"

"I am, sir," replied the poet, taking no notice of the new-comer's

intentional rudeness. "What do you wish with me?"

"I--er--er--ahem--come from Mr. McDermot, the publisher. My name is

Gannon."

"Indeed?" cried Moore. "Won't you have a chair, Mr. Gannon?"

"I will, thank you," replied the clerk, for such he was, seating himself

with much dignity, a performance given a humorous tinge by the

unsuccessful attempt he made to cross his fat little legs. "I have

called at Mr. McDermot's request to see you about your poems."

"You are more than welcome, I am sure," replied Moore.

"Mr. McDermot has read the manuscript volume you submitted, and takes

great pleasure in saying he has never read anything better; _great_

pleasure."

Moore gave a sigh of relief and grew quite light-headed with delight.

Here was real appreciation. Genius was about to be recognized at last.

Ugly, ill-tempered, little Gannon became in the poet's eyes suddenly

invested with the beautiful characteristics and perfect exterior of a

cherub, a little over-grown and shapeless, perhaps, but nevertheless

cherubic. He wondered how he could for the moment have so greatly

disliked this herald of prosperity.

"Mr. Gannon, you are thirsty, I know," stammered Moore. "You must be

after such a walk. I insist that you drink with me, sir. What shall it

be?"

"Since you insist I 'll try a little port," said the clerk, obligingly.

"Unfortunately," replied the poet, "that is one thing I have n't in my

possession. I'm like a loaded ship, sir, just out of port. But I 'll

give you something better."

"Will you?"

"I 've the finest drink in the world in that cupboard, sir. One that

will make life seem like a dream of blue sky and roses to you."

"Er--er--ahem,--I am a _married_ man," observed Mr. Gannon, doubtfully.

"This will enable you to forget that," said Moore in a reassuring tone.

"I hope not," replied Gannon, suddenly waxing confidential. "The only

cloud in my domestic horizon was caused by just such a slip of memory.

What a recollection women have for such lapses."

"For theirs or for yours, Mr. Gannon?"

"For mine, Mr. Moore, for mine," hastily replied the clerk. "Ah,

women--er--er--ahem--are angels, sir, angels."

"No doubt," said Moore, pleasantly, as he poured out the whisky, "of one

kind or _another_. This, sir, is the dew of heaven. You 'll never beat

this for tipple, Mr. Gannon. When I place this before you I show you

the greatest compliment in my power. Believe me, it is most precious,

dear sir, for it is the essence of Ireland. Each drop a tinted diamond.

Your health, Mr. Gannon."

"Thank you, Mr. Moore, thank you," replied the clerk in a flattered

tone, raising his glass to his mouth. But the first swallow of the fiery

liquid sent him into such a paroxysm of coughing that Moore felt

compelled to slap him on the back hastily.

"That's the way to drink such whisky," said the poet, approvingly. "It

makes it last longer."

"Er--er--ahem," replied the clerk, taking advantage of Moore's own

imbibing to empty the contents of his glass over his shoulder

unperceived by his host. Buster, being at this particular moment just

behind the little clerk, received the whisky full in the face, and

feeling compelled on his master's account to resist the belligerent

impulse which demanded he should obtain immediate satisfaction from the

cause of his discomfiture, he sought with a smothered oath the seclusion

of the stairs, an exile into which he was immediately followed by the

bulldog.

"What ails the lad?" asked Moore in astonishment. "I wonder if he is n't

well?"

"Ahem--er--Mr. Moore," began the clerk in a businesslike tone, "permit

me to deliver to you the message of my employer. I really am pressed

for time, sir."

"Go ahead," said Moore, seating himself on the opposite side of the

table near which his guest was sitting. "You may command me, Mr.

Gannon."

"Mr.--er--er--McDermot--ahem--wishes me to inform you that your poetry

is delightful. The language is beautiful."

"Yes?" said Moore, interrogatively, now in the seventh heaven of

delight. "Really, Mr. Gannon?"

"Each metaphor he declares is as delicate as it is charming."

"Yes?"

"Your rhymes are perfect, Mr. Moore."

"Yes?"

"In fact Mr. McDermot wishes me to assure you that the highest praise

can be lavished on your work, Mr. Moore, the highest praise."

"He is too kind, Mr. Gannon, he is too kind," cried the poet, rising in

his excitement.

"He was delighted with your book, but--"

Mr. Gannon paused, and looked solemn.

"But what?" asked Moore, eagerly.

"He cannot publish it."

Moore stood looking stupidly at the little clerk for a moment quite

dazed.

"Can't publish it?" he repeated slowly. "Can't publish it! Why not,

sir?"

"Your work is most worthy," answered Mr. Gannon, "but who are you?"

"I don't--quite--know," faltered Moore, stunned by the sudden casting

down of his so recently raised hopes.

"Ahem--er--er--nor does any one else," continued the clerk, pitilessly.

"Mr. McDermot bade me say that to obtain success at the present time a

book must be dedicated to some great figure of fashion."

"But I know none, sir," replied the disconsolate poet, sinking limply

back on his stool. "I know none, sir."

"Just so,--er--er--ahem,--Mr. Moore," said Mr. Gannon, gravely. "You

know none; none knows you, so here is your poetry."

As he spoke, he drew a bundle of manuscript from his coat-tail pocket

and tossed it contemptuously upon the table.

"Good day, sir, good day, er--er--ahem,--Mr. Moore."

And swelling out his chest with the importance properly attached to the

person of the bearer of bad news, little Mr. Gannon sauntered leisurely

out of the attic.

For a moment Moore sat motionless and dumb, striving to comprehend that

the sudden downfall of his hopes was real. So quickly had he found

himself robbed of the triumph which seemed almost in his grasp that the

events of the last few moments were temporarily blurred and blotted in

his mind as the fanciful weavings of a slumbering brain often are when

consciousness is rudely restored to the sleeper and memory seeks to

recall the dream.

"Done again," he murmured, softly. "_Done again_."

Suddenly a great sob shook his frame, but he manfully choked back the

others which would have followed it.

"My courage is gone at last," he whispered, as though he were not alone.

"I 'm beaten--I 'm beaten. Oh, it is bitter. All my bright hopes were

conjured up but to fade. A glimpse of Paradise shown to me, and then

this attic again. Ah, Bessie, Bessie, my heart is broken this day."

For a second he seemed as though about to break down completely, but,

controlling himself with a great effort, he dashed the tears from his

eyes with the back of his hand. Then as he turned, his eye fell upon

the manuscript lying on the table where it had been thrown by the

careless hand of Mr. Gannon.

"You are there, are you?" he cried, seizing it roughly. "You tempted me

from beautiful Ireland--you lured me here to this heartless, cruel

London, with a thousand sweet promises of hope and love and fame. You

've tricked me. You brought me here to starve--to die--to fail. Then,

damn you, I 'm through with you forever."

He hurled the written book to the floor and groped his way to the

window, blinded with the tears he would not shed. The golden and salmon

hued glory of the sunset, painting the spires and house tops with a

thousand shades of flame, fell full upon his hopeless head, and

conscious of the horrible mockery of such a halo at a time when only

darkness and despair seemed to surround his existence, the poor fellow

buried his face in his arms on the window-sill and sobbed like a beaten

child.

After a while, when the final bitterness of his grief and disappointment

had passed he left the window. As he crossed the room his eye fell upon

the rejected poems, which lay on the floor bathed in the crimson and

yellow riot of a sunbeam. He stood for a moment as though transfixed,

then as his heart filled with a sudden revulsion of feeling he knelt and

clasped the manuscript to his breast with a little cry.

"No, no," he murmured brokenly, "I did n't mean it, I did n't mean it,

for _such_ as you are you 're _all_ I have."

When Buster opened the door a few moments later he found his master

sitting in his favorite arm-chair in front of the fireplace in which

flickered a tiny fire, lighted for the sake of its cheering influence as

the chill of fall was still at least a month away.

"Well, sir?" asked the lad, hopefully. "Did he take 'em?"

"No, Buster, he came to bring them back," replied Moore, quite calmly.

Buster made a remark as expressive as it was profane, which is saying

much.

"Well, blow 'is hugly face!" he cried, in righteous indignation. "Hall

that fuss hand then 'ands 'em back?"

"He did, Buster."

"Oh, Hi wishes Hi 'ad a knowed it. Babble's tumble wouldn't 'ave been a

circumstance to the 'eader that little pot-bellied cove would 'ave

tooken. Hi say, Mr. Moore, will you call me 'Pride' after this?"

"Why?" asked Moore, more cheerfully.

"Because 'as 'ow Hi goes before a fall hand returns hafter it. Dabble

will swear to that, sir. Aw, don't let a measly publishing cove cast

you down, sir. W'y hall we 'as got to do is to cut McDermot dead when

we meets 'im on Pall Mall. That 'll ruin 'im socially."

"You are a plucky little devil, Buster."

"Yessir," replied the boy, sagely. "You see, Hi hain't got no gal to

worry me, sir."

"Ah, my lad," said Moore, nodding his head with a sigh, "that makes a

world of difference after all."

"There is some one hat the door, sir," said Buster. "Shall Hi tell 'im

you're hout?"

"No, lad, I 'll be glad of company. Bid him enter."

Buster obediently opened the door and a tall gentleman, magnificently

dressed, stepped over the threshold.

"Is this the residence of Mr. Thomas Moore?" he asked, removing his hat

politely.

At the sound of the new-comer's voice Moore started to his feet.

"It is, sir," he answered, advancing a step or two.

"Oh, how are you, Mr. Moore? You remember me?"

"Lord Brooking; Sir Percival's friend," said Moore coldly. "I 've not

forgotten you."

And he paid no attention to his lordship's outstretched hand.

Brooking seemed a trifle disconcerted at the coolness of his reception,

but, recovering himself, he continued winningly:

"You wrong me, sir. My intimacy with the gentleman you named has

declined to a mere acquaintance."

"You are to be congratulated, Lord Brooking," replied Moore more

cordially. "Won't you sit down?"

Then, as the young nobleman was relieved of his cloak and hat by Buster,

the poet went on:

"I believed your lordship to be abroad."

"It is my custom to pass six months yearly upon the Continent," answered

Brooking, settling back at his ease in the old arm-chair to which his

host had waved him. "To this, doubtless, your impression is due. As it

is, I only returned from there two days ago, so you see, Mr. Moore, you

are one of the first of my friends to receive a call from me."

"I am honored," replied Moore, politely, sitting down on the other side

of the fireplace.

"No doubt you are wondering what has brought me to see you?"

"I can't deny a slight curiosity, my lord," admitted Moore, smiling back

at the young nobleman, whose charming manner was winning his confidence

in spite of his previous suspicions.

"Then I 'll proceed to enlighten you without further delay, Mr. Moore."

"If your lordship will be so good."

"In Ireland a year ago Sir Percival offered little Mistress Dyke a

position at Drury Lane Theatre."

"He did, curse him!"

"Knowing the gentleman as I do, I promised my better self that, if the

young lady did come to London as the protegee of Lovelace, I would fetch

you here as mine, so, if the time came when she would require a strong

arm and a loving heart to defend her happiness, she need not go far to

find it. That very day I left Ireland and have since been abroad. Two

days ago I returned from Paris and found to my surprise that Mistress

Dyke _is_ acting at Drury Lane. Surely, you did not allow this

willingly?"

"Not I, sir. I had nothing to say about it."

"You mean she preferred Lovelace's advice to yours, Mr. Moore?"

"We quarrelled, sir, and from that day--it was the one on which you left

the old country, my lord--she has had no good word for me.

Circumstances placed me in an unfavorable light, and, believing me

faithless, she turned a deaf ear to my warnings. Her father was daft to

come to London, and in her anger she consented to make the venture."

"And you followed her here, Mr. Moore?"

"Yes, sir, I made a pretence of studying law in the Middle Temple, but

it was wretched work which I soon abandoned. Since then I 've been

scribbling for a living and not achieving much success at it, though I

have done my best."

"I see," said Brooking, reflectively.

"Did Bessie give you my address?"

"Not she," replied his lordship. "I 've not had the pleasure of

renewing my acquaintance with Mistress Dyke."

"She and her father go everywhere," said Moore, proudly. "Thanks to Sir

Percival's influence, they have been received by society with open arms.

The old gentleman's poems sell, and Bessie is more than ordinarily

successful at Drury Lane."

"I am not surprised at the young lady's success," observed the young

nobleman. "That of her father in the world of letters would have seemed

to me problematical had I not your assurance of his prosperity."

"Then if Bessie did not tell you where I lived, how did you find me

out?"

"I lunched to-day at Mrs. FitzHerbert's. There I saw a poem with your

name and address attached."

Moore gave Buster a grateful glance which more than repaid that young

gentleman for his enterprise.

"By the way, Mr. Moore, the verses I spoke of were charming. Mrs.

FitzHerbert read them aloud to the assembled company, who received them

with every mark of pleasure and appreciation. Mr. Sheridan was

particularly complimentary in his comments, while no less harsh a critic

than Mr. Brummell condescended to express himself as delighted. Have

you other poems, Mr. Moore?"

"What is that, Lord Brooking?"

"Have you other poems?"

Moore's laugh was not untinged with bitterness as he opened the drawer

in the table, lifting from it with both hands a confused pile of

manuscripts which he dropped carelessly in front of his guest.

"A few, sir," he remarked grimly.

"But why are they not published?" demanded Lord Brooking, scanning

various poems through his eyeglasses. "They seem of uniform

excellence."

"They are refused because I have no patron in the world of fashion to

accept the dedication. McDermot, the great publisher, told me so

himself."

"Indeed?" remarked his lordship, meditatively. "Hum!"

"Ah, if your lordship would permit me?" began Moore, eagerly.

"I 'll do better than that," interrupted Brooking. "I 'll bring your

work to the attention of the Prince himself."

"The Prince?" cried Moore, dazzled at the mere idea.

"Yes, Mr. Moore, the Prince. Wales, in spite of his many faults, is a

curst good fellow, and quite a judge of poetry. He shall read specimens

of your skill. Fortunately Mrs. FitzHerbert, who still enjoys his

Highness's favor, is mightily at odds with Sir Percival. Moreover, she

was greatly pleased with the Rose poem you favored her with. I 'll get

her to exert her influence with Wales. Egad, Mr. Moore, we 'll do our

best for you."

"How can I thank you?" faltered Moore, hope welling up in his heart once

more.

Brooking rose from his chair.

"You can repay me easily," he answered, placing his hand upon his

protege's shoulder. "Marry sweet Mistress Bessie and then keep her from

Sir Percival. The happiness your wedded life should bring you both will

amply reward me for any effort I may make in your behalf. If the Prince

permits me to dedicate your book to him the publishers will fight for

the privilege of printing it and your fortune is made, Tom Moore."

"But we have quarrelled," said Moore, hopelessly.

"Capital!" cried his lordship. "No woman tiffs with a man to whom she

is indifferent. It is the sex's sweet perversity. Then, again, Tom

Moore famous, for you 'll never be more than 'Tom' if success is

yours--the public loves a familiar diminutive, sir--will be a different

Moore from Thomas Moore unknown."

"Ah, sir, you put new courage in my heart," said Moore, catching the

young nobleman's infectious enthusiasm.

"I 'll put money in your purse, which is even better, lad," replied

Brooking, plunging his hand in his pocket, from which he drew it forth

filled with coins of various denominations. "Write me a sonnet to send

to my lady love."

"I 'll do it gladly," said Moore, seating himself at the table and with

feverish haste drawing towards him pen and paper. "Is the lady blonde

or brunette?"

Lord Brooking hesitated for a moment.

"Curst if I know," thought he, "since I have never laid eyes on her."

Then he continued, addressing Moore:

"Brunette, dark hair and blue eyes, and a devilishly sweet and

mischievous mouth."

"Very well, sir," replied Moore, dipping his pen in the ink.

"One second, Mr. Moore. Here are five sovereigns in advance."

His lordship dropped the coins upon the table as Moore looked up at him,

gratitude dumbing his tongue for the moment.

"Finish the verses at your leisure," continued Brooking. "I am in no

hurry for them."

"God bless you, sir," stammered Moore, finding speech at last. "You

have brought new life and hope to me this day. I 'll never forget your

generosity."

"Tut, tut," said his lordship, hastily. "Never mind thanking me. If

all goes well you are to get married and be happy if you wish to please

me."

"I promise I 'll do my best," replied the poet, smiling more cheerfully

than in days.

"My hat and cloak, boy," said Brooking. "I 'll off to Carlton House,

where I am expected by Wales even now."

"I can hardly believe I am the same man, my lord," said Moore. "You

have changed me completely, sir."

"You 'll hear from me soon, Tom," said Brooking, hat in hand, as he

crossed to the door. "Be of good cheer, my lad, for if Wales will have

none of it, I 'll accept the dedication, and I flatter myself that will

be enough to insure publication for you. Good-bye for the present."

"Good-bye, my lord," answered Moore, closing the door behind his

benefactor with almost reverential care.

"Mr. Moore," said Buster.

"Yes, my lad."

"Was that Lord Brooking?"

"Yes, Buster. Why do you ask?"

"Coz Hi thought as 'ow he was a bloomin' hangel," said Buster.

"Ah, lad, I 'm not sure that you are not right," answered Moore, and

there was no laughter in his voice.

_Chapter Fourteen_

_SIR PERCIVAL LOVELACE IS FAVORED BY FORTUNE_

Moore lost no time before setting out to make a little payment on

account to all of his creditors residing in the neighborhood, so Buster,

left to his own devices, extended a broomstick towards Lord Castlereagh

in a manner tempting in the extreme. Being of a congenial and obliging

disposition, the bulldog secured a firm grip and then endeavored to

wrest it from his master's grasp. A rough and tumble tug-of-war ensued,

the finish being an aerial performance by Lord Castlereagh, who made a

flying trip around Buster as that worthy youth, exerting his muscle to

the utmost, swung stick, dog and all in a circle clear of the floor.

Having exhausted himself without accomplishing the release of the stick

from the bulldog's jaws, Buster had a brilliant inspiration and outraged

precedent by washing his face and hands, it being his custom to perform

ablutions only on arising in the morning unless detected and otherwise

admonished by his master. Before he had finished drying himself a

warning growl from his four-legged playfellow gave notice that some one

was approaching.

Buster opened the door in answer to a loud knock and found himself

confronted by two elegantly attired gentlemen, who willingly entered the

room in response to his hospitable greeting.

"Hullo," said Sir Percival, coolly eying Buster through his glass with

an amused smile. "Who are you?"

Buster was distinctly pleased with the baronet. Sir Percival's stalwart

form was clad in the latest fashion, which set off his handsome person

to great advantage, but in spite of his distinguished appearance, his

manner in addressing the boy was so genuinely affable and good-natured

that it placed them in sympathy at once. Where Buster liked he was

prone to admire eventually; when he both liked and admired at first

sight he became like clay in the potter's hands.

"Who am Hi, sir?" repeated he, "Why Hi 'me the Reverend Doctor Buster of

Hall Souls's Chapel."

"Indeed?" observed Sir Percival. "Delighted to make your acquaintance,

Doctor."

"We want none of your slack," growled the baronet's companion.

"Tut!" said Sir Percival, "let the boy have his joke. Is Mr. Moore at

home?"

"No, sir," replied Buster, giving a hard look at Farrell, for Sir

Percival's companion was none other. "'Ee 's never 'ome at such times,

sir."

"What times?" demanded Farrell, gruffly.

"Times wen 'ee is hout," replied the boy, delighted at having entrapped

the object of his dislike, for he was as much displeased with the young

man as he was favorably impressed with his more amiable companion. Sir

Percival laughed gently at his companion's discomfiture.

"I am an old friend of Mr. Moore," he said to Buster. "May I wait till

he returns?"

"Yessir," replied Buster. "You can make yourself comfortibble in my

habsence. I ham about to give his lordship a breather."

"His lordship?" echoed Sir Percival. "May I ask whom you so designate?"

"Certingly. Come 'ere, Pupsy."

The bulldog gambolled across the room to the boy, and standing up on his

hind legs playfully attempted to bite off one of his trouser buttons.

"Sich manners, hand hin front o' comp'ny too," said Buster, chidingly.

"Down, sir. Hallow me to hintroduce Lord Castlereagh, the champeen

fighter of the neighborhood. Say 'ow-dy-do, Pupsy."

Lord Castlereagh obediently threw up his great head and barked

cheerfully in welcome. This done, he sat down on his haunches and

extended his paw, which the baronet shook heartily.

"Who named the dog?" demanded Sir Percival, helping himself to a seat on

the stool nearest him.

"I hasked Mr. Moore to suggest a suitable cognomy, hand that's wot 'ee

chose. 'Ee hallows has 'ow hit was wonderously happropriate, sir."

"I quite agree with your master," replied the baronet. "You said you

were going out. Pray do not let me detain you."

"Hall right, sir," said Buster, taking his cap from its nail behind the

door. "Mr. Moore will return from 'is drive in 'Yde Park in 'arf an

hour. Hi won't be very long. Come hon, Pupsy."

Opening the door he hurried along the hall and down the stairs with Lord

Castlereagh yelping delightedly in headlong pursuit as Sir Percival rose

from his seat and strolled carelessly around the attic, humming softly

to himself as he prosecuted his investigation. Meanwhile Farrell, seated

in Moore's arm-chair, preserved a gloomy silence.

"So," said the baronet, disdainfully, "this is the abode of genius?

Upon my word, as bare and unattractive a kennel as I have ever

explored."

"You dragged me here against my will, Sir Percival," responded Farrell,

uneasily. "When you have satisfied your curiosity let us go. I have no

wish to encounter Moore."

"Tut," said Sir Percival, reprovingly, "there is no necessity for our

haste, we saw the worthy gentleman leave here, Terence. Walking at the

rate at which he started he must be half way to Pall Mall by this time."

"If he does not turn back," objected Farrell. "You can't be sure how

long he intended to continue in that direction, Sir Percival."

"That can hardly be considered as a disadvantage," responded the

baronet, airily, "since it adds a pleasant tinge of risk to our

adventure which otherwise could not be termed hazardous, though what

difference discovery would make I really fail to see."

"That is all very well for you," said Farrell, crossly, "but I want no

more such beatings as he gave me in Ireland. I was in bed a week."

"You were suitably recompensed for your discomfort, Terence. Thanks to

you, Bessie and her father accepted my proposition to come to London,

turning a deaf ear to the impassioned explanations of the worthy but

misguided Thomas."

"Oh, I 'm smart enough to accomplish the wishes of other people,"

replied Farrell, bitterly, "but I cannot seem to materially advance my

own fortunes."

"Yet, I see little reason for your dissatisfaction. Finding myself in

need of such a clever brain in London I brought you here ostensibly to

read law. You have the benefit of my popularity in the social world.

Surely for a young and unknown Irishman to be comparatively intimate

with the Prince's own set is an honor? You don't know when you are well

off, my young misanthrope."

"That is as it may be," said Farrell, not at all impressed by his

patron's eulogy of the advantage afforded him by his present situation.

"But," said Sir Percival knowingly, "think what an education for a young

and ambitious beau a close and personal study of George Brummell must of

necessity be. By the way he spoke very highly of you at Sam Rogers's

house only yesternight."

"Did he?" asked Farrell, eagerly. "May I ask you to repeat his words,

Sir Percival?"

"To be sure, my boy," said the elder man, genially. "Let me see. If I

recollect correctly, his exact words were, 'Young Farrell possesses

great sartorial possibilities now in a state of gradual but progressive

development, his innate refinement of taste being at the present time

slightly obscured and handicapped by a provincial anarchism of selection

due to youth's inevitable cheerfulness in the choice of color, and

rather crude harmonizing of shade.' There is a tribute for you,

Terence."

Farrell flushed with pleasure. Secretly ambitious to outshine even the

great leader of fashion himself, he found his aspirations seriously

interfered with by the limited income allowed him by his patron. It

must not be thought, however, that Sir Percival was niggardly in his

treatment of Farrell. In truth he was far more generous than

ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have been under the same

circumstances, but it could hardly be expected that the allowance given

even by a free-handed patron to a clever protege would suffice to

dethrone such an all-powerful monarch of society as at this time was

George Brummell, familiarly known in the circle he graced as the Beau.

Nevertheless the handsome face and tasteful costumes of the young

Irishman had begun to attract some little attention in London society, a

circumstance that filled his heart with more than ordinary satisfaction,

for Farrell was clear-headed enough to see that the vogue of Brummell,

who was almost as renowned for wit and impertinent frankness as for

dress, even in his association with Royalty itself, must sooner or later

come to an end when by some characteristically insolent jest he should

lose the favor of the Prince of Wales, now his close friend and patron.

Some years later this very disaster apprehended by Farrell occurred, and

when the impoverished and heartbroken Brummell was starving in a mean

garret in Calais, it was the brilliant young Irishman, his pretensions

now supported by the vast wealth of the ugly old widow whom he had

meanwhile married, who reigned as first fop and dandy of the United

Kingdom, until the summer Sunday morning came on which he went bravely

to his death for slapping the face of Sir Dudley Brilbanke, who had made

a slighting remark on beaus in general and Brummell in particular, which

the successor to the unfortunate man then in exile felt bound to resent.

In the meantime Sir Percival had been poking about on the table which

was still littered with the manuscripts thrown upon it during Moore's

interview with Lord Brooking.

"To Bessie!" murmured the baronet in an amused tone. "Our rhymer wastes

a vast number of sheets in that young lady's name,--'The Meeting of the

Waters,' 'She is Far from the Land,' 'Oft in the Stilly Night,' 'Love's

Young Dream.' Will these ever see print, I wonder?"

"On that I 'll stake my life, Sir Percival," responded Farrell. "Though

I dislike Tom Moore with all my heart, I know he is a genius in his

line. If he will only keep his courage in the face of disappointment

there is no man who will achieve more success in the writing of verses,

I feel certain."

"Dear me," said Sir Percival, taking snuff, "if such is really the

truth, I 'll have to interest myself in his affairs again. Hullo, what

is this?"

As he spoke, the baronet drew from the heap of manuscripts the verses

satirizing the Prince of Wales written and left in Moore's keeping by

Mr. Dyke, which the poet had accidentally taken from the drawer when he

flung his armful of rejected poems on the table before Lord Brooking.

Sir Percival scanned the verses, his dubious expression changing to one

of great delight as he read on, until as he finished he laughed aloud.

"What is it pleases you, Sir Percival?"

"Egad, Terence, I 've happened on a treasure. A satire on the Prince.

Gad, he cooks Wales to a cinder. Listen, Terence.

"'THE BRAIN OF ROYALTY.

"It is of scraps and fragments built,

Borrowed alike from Fools and Wits,--

His mind is like a patchwork quilt

Made up of motley, cast-off bits.

Poor Prince! And how else could it be,

His notions all at random caught,

His mind a mental fricassee

Made up of odds and ends of thought.'

"And so on for several more verses. The Regent has n't had such a

toasting in many a day. I swear I 'll have this published immediately."

"Ah," said Farrell, "and why, sir?"

"'T will ruin Moore," replied the baronet, regarding the other in

surprise.

Farrell surveyed the attic with a contemptuous stare before answering.

"Surely, Sir Percival, this shabby hole is not indicative of either

success or affluence," said he slowly. "One does not dig into the earth

to crush a worm under foot."

"You speak in riddles, Terence," observed Sir Percival, pleasantly

puzzled.

"I 'll make my meaning plain, sir. Tom Moore does not annoy you now.

Wait till he succeeds, if he ever does so, before you publish that poem.

The time to spoil his career is when he has accomplished something and

is about to climb higher. He is starving here."

"Stab me, if you are not right, Terence," exclaimed the baronet,

approvingly. "I will keep this bit of humor in reserve, and you shall

be witness that I found it fresh from Moore's pen upon his table."

"Willingly," said Farrell. "Meanwhile, continue your pursuit of

Mistress Dyke. Are you making progress there?"

"As yet I 've gained no ground at all so far as I can see," replied Sir

Percival in a discontented tone. "True, I have apparently won her trust

and friendship, but that is because my behavior has been above

criticism. No young curate could be more circumspect and exemplary than

I have been. To tell the truth, Terence, I am cursed weary of being

respectable."

"I can understand how irksome such restraint must be to you, Sir

Percival," said Farrell, carelessly, "but you must play your own hand.

I have helped you all I can in the securing of cards. My trick in the

school-house ruined Moore in the girl's estimation, thus clearing the

way for your approach."

"Quite so," observed Sir Percival, cordially, "and since he is powerless

to thwart me I can take my own time about the chase."

"Speaking of time, Sir Percival," said Farrell, rising to his feet, "we

can't linger here much longer. Come, let us go."

"Tut, Terence," said the baronet, disapprovingly, "how nervous you are."

At this moment Moore opened the door and, striding into the room, gave

an exclamation of surprise as he recognized his visitors.

"Mr. Moore, as I live," said Sir Percival, gently. "Sir, we have been

waiting for you."

"What do you want here, Sir Percival?" demanded Moore, gruffly, glaring

at Farrell, who was manifestly ill at ease.

"I thought I 'd look you up for old times' sake," replied the baronet, a

sneer breaking through his smile for once. "Mr. Farrell came at my

request."

Moore stepped to the door and opened it.

"Then he will leave at mine," he said, sharply. "Get along, Terence,

before I do you an injury."

Farrell did not hesitate. Waving his hat in farewell to Sir Percival,

he walked quickly out of the attic and started downstairs as Moore

slammed the door loudly after him.

Sir Percival laughed good naturedly, and rose to his feet as Moore

returned from the doorway.

"I called, Mr. Moore, to say that it has reached my ears that you are in

want. Is this true?"

"I would want a long time before I would ask you for anything but your

absence," replied Moore, hotly.

"If you desire to return to Ireland, I will be pleased to pay your way,"

continued the baronet, suavely.

"If you will go to the devil I will be pleased to assist in your

departure, Sir Percival. Hurry, or I may do it now."

"You are not polite, sir."

"My politeness would be wasted upon such as you," answered Moore.

"That is a point that might be argued," observed Sir Percival in his

most genial manner. "Am I to regard your answer as final, Mr. Moore?"

"Quite final. Now be so kind as to go."

"If you desire it, with pleasure."

Moore opened the door that Sir Percival might pass out and found himself

face to face with Bessie Dyke, who had paused on the threshold

preparatory to knocking.

"You, Bessie?" he stammered, for the moment completely confused.

Bessie was not at all embarrassed until, on entering, her eye fell on

Sir Percival. Then she blushed slightly, but after a momentary

hesitation turned to Moore and said:

"I thought my father was here, or I should not have ventured up."

"He was here a while ago and I expect him to return any moment,"

answered Moore, eagerly taking his cue from Bessie.

"A note came to the house for him marked 'Immediate,'" continued the

girl, ribbing adroitly, "so I thought best to follow him here."

"Won't you wait for him?" asked Moore, pushing forward the arm-chair.

"I fancy," said Sir Percival, "I fancy Mistress Dyke will not care to

remain here since her father is absent."

"Why not?" demanded Moore, angrily.

"This is scarcely the place nor the company for a lady to remain in,"

replied the baronet.

"When you go, Sir Percival," said Moore, more calmly, "the only

objectionable feature will be removed."

Sir Percival did not deign to reply to this rudeness, but, stepping

towards the girl, extended his arm in mute invitation. Mistress Dyke,

however, had plans of her own, and was not to be thus led away.

"I thank you, Sir Percival," said she, "but I shall wait for my father."

Sir Percival raised his eyebrows disapprovingly, but was too wise to

insist further, so took his departure with a courtly bow to the girl,

and a sneering smile for Moore, who, quite unruffled, lighted an extra

pair of candles in honor of his visitor.

As the sound of the baronet's steps died away in the hall Bessie gave a

sigh of relief and sank down in the chair. Moore hesitated, then taking

courage came to her side.

"Ah, Bessie," he said, softly. "I 've been starving for a sight of you.

It is like the old times to see you again."

"But," said the girl in a chilly tone, "the old times are passed and

done with. Nothing is as it was."

"You are wrong, Bessie," said Moore, gently. "My heart is the same."

Bessie rose from the chair and drew her shawl closer about her

shoulders.

"Then it belongs to Winnie Farrell," she said in a determined tone.

Moore winced as though he had received a blow. Nevertheless his voice

was clear and unfaltering as he answered:

"Winnie Farrell is married to the man of her choice. Surely there is no

need to throw her name in my face when I tell you that I love you?"

"You told Winnie the same thing," said Bessie, coldly.

Moore gave an exclamation of pain.

"I 've explained that misunderstanding a score of times," he said,

bitterly. "They tricked me that you might think me unworthy of your

trust and so be persuaded to come to London. Like a fool I walked into

the trap and you believed me faithless. On my honor, you wronged me,

dearest. I 've loved but you Bessie; you are all in all to me,

mavourneen. Won't you--can't you--believe me?"

[Illustration: "You are all in all to me, mavourneen."]

Bessie's lips trembled as she averted her face, but her voice showed no

signs of relenting as she answered:

"Whether you love me or not matters very little to me, Mr. Moore."

"The applause at Drury Lane has changed you, Bessie. You are like all

the others; one glimpse of the footlights and the rest of the world may

go hang."

"Nonsense!" said the girl. "I don't care a snap of my fingers for the

theatre. I was never intended to be an actress."

"I know," assented the poet, "you were meant to be Mrs. Moore, darling."

"I think you are quite mistaken, sir."

"How cold you are to me," cried Moore in despair. "Is it because--? No,

I can't believe _that_. Bessie, you don't care for Sir Percival?"

"Really, Mr. Moore, I cannot discuss my private affairs with you," said

Bessie in a voice so cold and proud that Moore abandoned all hope of

moving her.

"Then," he asked defiantly, "why have you come here?"

Bessie turned to him with a little sobbing sigh of relief. She had

played her part well and kept up the artifice to the last moment

required by the object which she had intended to accomplish, but the

task had been more difficult than she had expected.

"Why?" she cried, her voice thrilling with love and happiness. "To tell

you that you need battle with poverty no longer, Tom Moore. You have

won, Tom, you have won. Fame, fortune--all that you have dreamed of and

fought for so long--so patiently and courageously--shall be yours. I

bring you a message from the Prince of Wales."

"From the Prince?" gasped Moore.

"Yes, Tom. He accepts the dedication of your book. Lord Brooking sent

me to tell you the news."

"You mean it, Bessie?" cried the half-frantic poet, as the door was sent

slamming back by the entrance of Lord Brooking with Buster and the

bulldog close at his heels.

"Lord Brooking, is it true?"

"The Prince declares himself honored by the dedication," replied his

lordship triumphantly. "McDermot publishes your book in a week."

Moore gave a choking sob of joy as he groped his way toward his

benefactor.

"At last!" he whispered, "at last!" and buried his face on his

lordship's sturdy shoulder, his eyes full of glad tears.

"There, there, Tom," said the young nobleman. "It is quite true. Your

luck has finally changed. There shall be no more striving and starving

for you, my good lad. Your fortune is made."

"Ah," cried Moore, turning to where Bessie stood, her hands tightly

clasped and her face radiant with gladness as she watched her lover's

realization of the truth. "You hear, Bessie? It's success, girl, it's

fortune and renown. Aye, fortune, Bessie. _Now_ you will marry me?"

The girl turned white with anger and shame. Moore had made a fatal

choice of the words with which he re-declared his love, never thinking

his meaning could be misunderstood.

"Tom," said Lord Brooking, warningly, but Bessie interrupted him before

he could put things right.

"How dare you?" she cried, her cheeks suddenly flaming as she faced the

luckless poet.

"Bessie?" cried Moore appealingly, seeing his error too late.

"How dare you?" she repeated, her voice quivering as she stamped her

foot in her anger. "Fortune! You hurl the word in my face as though I

were to be bought by wealth. Do you think because prosperity has come I

must of necessity change my answer? You believe you could bribe me to

say 'Yes' with your success. Oh, how could you, Tom Moore?"

"No, no, Bessie," cried the poet, "you know I did not think that."

"Hush, sir," she answered, moving towards the door with downcast eyes.

"I beg of you to listen to me, Bessie. You know--you must know--I could

not think what you fear?"

"Let me go, sir. Lord Brooking, I appeal to you."

His lordship touched Moore on the shoulder as the poet sought to prevent

the departure of the enraged girl.

"Some other time, Tom. Words can do no good now," he said, softly.

Moore withdrew his hand from Bessie's arm and she opened the door as he

stepped back.

"Have you nothing to say to me?" he murmured, hoarsely, as she turned on

the threshold.

"Yes," she answered. "I hate you, I hate you," and closed the door.

For a moment Moore stood staring at the spot where she had paused; then

he turned with an oath.

"You heard that, Lord Brooking?" he cried bitterly. "You saw that? That

ends it all. I 'm through with the old dream forever. I 'll go back to

Ireland. Back to the green fields and rippling brooks. I 'm through

with London. I 've starved here. It has broken my heart and I hate it.

In Ireland I will be with my friends--my own people. There I will

forget her. I will learn to hate her. Aye, to hate her."

And he threw himself heavily into his arm-chair.

Lord Brooking stepped quickly forward.

"You are right, Moore," said he. "Tear her from your heart."

"Yes," cried the poet, desperately.

"There are other women much more fair than she. Go back to Ireland and

forget her."

"I will, sir."

"_Leave her to Sir Percival Lovelace!_"

Moore started to his feet with a cry of protest.

"No, I 'm damned if I do, Lord Brooking."

"Ah," said his lordship, greatly relieved. "I thought you would change

your mind."