Tom Moore

Chapter Nine Tom Moore receives Calls from Mrs. Malone and Mr. Dyke

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My heye,” he muttered. “We must ’ave disturbed ’im, hand ’im so tired and discouraged, too.”

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

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

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

“’Twas the last rose hof summer left bloomink alone.”

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

“Oh, hit’s you, his it?” said Buster, regarding the woman with disapproving eye.

“I suppose you t’ought it was the Prince of Wales,” replied Mrs. Malone.

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

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

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

“Mrs. Malone, you ’re a hanarchist,” declared Buster, shocked beyond expression.

“Mr. Buster, you ’re a liar,” replied the landlady, promptly.

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

“You call me that name again, and I ’ll smack you,” exclaimed Mrs. Malone, pugnaciously.

“Smack me!” echoed Buster, in trepidation. “Hif you kisses me, Mrs. Malone, Hi ’ll scream.”

“Kiss you, indeed!” snorted the landlady, scornfully.

“Don’t you dare,” warned Buster, getting behind a table for greater safety.

“Is your good-for-nothing master in?”

“Hi am not hacquainted with no such hindividual. Hif you means Mr. Moore, ’ee ’s hout.”

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

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

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

“But Mrs. Fitz’erbert does n’t ’ail from Jersey,” corrected Buster. “She ’s from Wicklow, Hireland.”

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

Buster looked interested.

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

“There is,” replied Mrs. Malone, proudly, “but none betther.”

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

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

“Oh—h—h!” came from within.

“There, you ’as done it, Mrs. Malone,” said the boy reproachfully.

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

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

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

Mrs. Malone gave a sniff of concentrated scorn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweet Mistress Malone, with your eyes deep and blue,
Don’t ask me for rent, for I ’m telling you true,
’T would make me a bankrupt if I should pay you,
So let the rent slide like a darling,—Now do.”

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

“You can’t plaster me, Tom Moore,” she declared, loudly.

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

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

“Don’t touch me, you young divil,” Mrs. Malone ejaculated. “How dare you take such liberties?”

“Mine is only a friendly interest,” protested Moore.

“I wants no impudence.”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t hear either ducks or geese. Do you, Buster?”

“Hi ’ears Mrs. Malone, sir,” replied the lad, stepping behind the bulldog for safety’s sake.

“The mistake is natural,” answered Moore. “You were saying—?”

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

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

“Yessir, that we will,” asserted that staunch ally.

“Niver mind thot,” replied the landlady, extending her palm. “Misther Moore, I ’ll thank you for the rint.”

Moore took her hand and pressed it warmly.

“No thanks are necessary,” he said briskly, “since I have n’t it.”

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

“I ’ll have thot rint,” she exclaimed.

“I sincerely hope so, Mrs. Malone, though how you ’ll get it I can’t see.”

“I’ll make you see.”

“That is very accommodating, I am sure.”

“You must raise it, Misther Moore, or I ’ll have to have me attic.”

Moore looked at her admiringly.

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

“Thot ’ll do you, young sir,” replied the landlady, quite unimpressed.

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

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

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

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

“Well,” said Moore, half seriously, “you are getting even with me now, are n’t you?”

“Niver mind thot. If you don’t pay me, out you walk this day, me bucko.”

“Won’t you let me run if I prefer it?”

“No impudence! When will you pay me?”

Moore turned to Buster, interrogatively.

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

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

“After I am dressed,” said he. “Come back in half an hour when I am dressed and I ’ll pay you.”

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

Moore nodded his head approvingly.

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

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

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

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

“Hi suppose ’ee were a fine scholard.”

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

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

“Good,” said Moore, “then I won’t have to disturb Mrs. Malone’s watch on the hall.”

“No, sir, that you won’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t, sir, don’t,” said the boy, a queer little break in his voice, but Moore continued:

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

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

“I?” murmured Moore, choking back a sob. “There is n’t much doubt, is there?”

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

“It’s best for you, Buster,” insisted Moore, laying his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoulder.

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

“You won’t, Buster?”

“Wot would that young lady hover at Drury Lane think o’ me, hif I left you halone?”

Moore sighed at the thought of her.

“She would n’t care, Buster,” he murmured.

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

“But you are getting no wages, Buster,” protested Moore.

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

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

“You won’t send me away?” he asked, piteously. “You won’t, will you, Mr. Moore.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Buster,” continued Moore, without turning round.

“Yessir?”

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

“Thank you, sir.”

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

“Horf in the stilly night
  H’ere slumber’s chains ’as bound me,
The shadows hof hother days
  Comes a-gathering round me.”

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

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

“The smiles, the tears,
Hof boyish years—”

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

“For Heaven’s sake stop that caterwauling,” cried Moore. “You put my teeth on edge.”

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

“Blow me, Lord Castlereagh, if you hain’t a knocking the stuffin’ hout of ‘The Rivals,’” he remarked reprovingly.

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

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

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

“Dinner? What have you?”

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

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

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

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

“There is n’t much life left in it, Buster.”

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

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

“Yessir,” said Buster, “fer some joyous hoccasion. ’Ave hanother smell, sir?”

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

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

“Hi ’ve seen the shoemakers, sir,” he announced.

“Ah, did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yessir, that ain’t hall. Hi ’as a confession to make, sir.”

“You have?” said Moore in a surprised tone. “Well, let’s have it, my lad.”

“Yessir—”

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

“Married ’ell!” exclaimed the lad, his nose turning up in disdain at the idea.

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

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

“‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ wasn’t it?”

“Yessir. Hi did n’t take it to the Times.”

“You did n’t? Why not, Buster?”

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

“So there is a woman in it, after all?” observed Moore. “’T was ever thus, Buster.”

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

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

“Thank you, sir,” said Buster, greatly relieved.

“Was my name signed?”

“Yessir, hand your haddress too.”

“Very good, Buster. Perhaps she ’ll come to call and bring the Prince of Wales with her.”

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

“That sounds like treason, Buster.”

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

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

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

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

“Hit’s all right, sir. Who is it?”

“It’s Mr. Dyke,” declared the person desirous of entering.

Moore’s face fell.

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

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

“Ah, that is the question,” said the poet, softly.

“Hi knows,” remarked Buster under his breath. “‘Cos ’ee ’s ’er father, that’s why.”

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

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

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

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

“I have come to read you a poem, Thomas.”

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

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

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

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

“I know,” said Moore. “Bessie is getting on, is n’t she?”

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

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

The old gentleman cleared his throat modestly.

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

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

“Do you know Mr. Sheridan, Thomas?”

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

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

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

“I met him a fortnight ago at Sir Percival’s house. Needless to say I was honored, Thomas.”

“Quite needless, sir. Was he sober?”

“Part of the time,” answered Mr. Dyke, reluctantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Winnie Farrell was married to Captain Arbuckle last Wednesday week.”

Moore gave a start.

“You don’t say so, sir? Are you sure?”

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

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

“You quarrelled with him, Thomas?”

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

The old gentleman sighed and put on his glasses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thomas, I won’t. I promise I ’ll not write another.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t mean it, sir?”

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

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

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

“Will I?” asked Moore, doubtfully.

Mr. Dyke turned at the door with a chuckle.

“I almost envy you the fun, my lad. Oh, it’s monstrous witty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then ’ee ’s been achin’ a long time,” replied the boy, misunderstanding the meaning of his master’s remark.

Moore laughed gently and did not correct him.