Chapter Ten In which the Landlady is played a Trick
In the meantime Mrs. Malone, having pounded upstairs, halted in front of the door, not from politeness, but to regain her breath. Having paused, she decided to knock, unconsciously mindful of Buster’s scathing rebuke.
“Who is there?” asked Buster.
“Me, for me money,” responded the landlady, determinedly. “Is there any sin in asking for what is due me?”
“As much sin as there is use,” muttered Moore. “I can’t go over the roof like this, Buster. I have it. Tell her I am taking a bath.”
“Yessir,” said the boy, starting towards the door as Moore sought shelter with pail and pitcher of water behind an old screen standing in the corner of the room.
“My cold bath, Buster,” whispered Moore.
“Yessir.”
“And, Buster?”
“Yessir.”
“You get out when she comes in.”
“Hi will, sir,” responded Buster preparing to open the door.
“Am I to die of old age in my own hall?” demanded Mrs. Malone, waxing indignant.
“You ’as your choice hof complaints, madam,” replied Buster, opening the door.
“You limb!” said she, misunderstanding the lad’s unusual politeness. “I ’ll not have any half-baked omadhaun cursing me.”
“Curse you, Mrs. Malone? Himpossible, hon my word of honer. W’y Hi ’as narthin but blessin’s fer you, sweetheart.”
Mrs. Malone aimed a blow at Buster’s ear, and, as he dodged successfully, swung half around with the misspent energy of her effort. Buster sought safety in the hall, but thrust his head in the doorway.
“Mr. Moore his taking ’is cold bawth,” he announced, loudly.
A splashing of water coming from behind the screen corroborated the lad’s statement.
“Taking his bath, is he?” said Mrs. Malone. “It’s the only thing he can take widout getting arresthed.”
“Hit’s ’is hown, Mrs. Malone.”
“Are you sure of thot?”
“W’y h’are you so suspicious, Mrs. Malone? ’Ave you missed one?”
“Niver you mind prying into the secrets of me toilet. I ’ll have you to understand—”
At this moment a ragged towel, soaking wet as the result of its immersion in the pail, sailed over the top of the screen and landed with a gurgling squash, fair and square on the back of the landlady’s neck, dampening her collar and best cap so thoroughly that the starched linen immediately subsided into floppy limpness.
“Merciful powers!” ejaculated Mrs. Malone, jumping a foot at least. “Phwat ’s thot?”
Buster fled downstairs fearful of impending massacre, while Moore behind the screen began giving an imitation of a man in the throes of an ice-cold bath, bursting into musicless song punctuated with exclamations of discomfort and shivery comments on his condition.
“She is far from the land,”
he shouted, slopping the water from pitcher to pail and back again, adding sotto voce, “But not from the landlady, worse luck—Oh! I ’ll die of the cold! I know I will. Oh, mother, it’s a cake of ice your beloved Thomas is fast becoming.
“Where her young hero sleeps,
—Only her young hero is freezing instead of sleeping. Help! Help! Whew-w-w! Murder, murder, I ‘m dying of the chill!”
Mrs. Malone in speechless rage had unwound the wet towel from around her neck.
“You divil!” she remarked, with the calmness of despair. “You red-handed rapscallion. You ’ve spiled me best Sunday Get-Up-and-Go-to-Early-Morning-Mass-Cap. Oh, you haythen!—you turk! Hanging is too good for the likes of you.”
Moore, bawling and singing at the top of his lungs, heard nothing of the landlady’s desperation.
“And lovers around her are sighing,
But coldly she turns—
Faith, the dear girl must have been taking a cold bath herself, I ‘m thinking. Oh, murder! No! For, if that were so, how could the lovers be around her? No, indeed, no lady decent enough for Tom Moore to immortalize in song would be guilty of such immodesty, I am sure.
“But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
A beautiful sentiment, Mr. Moore.”
“Oh, where is that soap?” and then again bursting into song, he warbled:
“Where is that soap?
Where is that soap?
Oh, where in Blazes is that so-o-o-ap?
Buster, you devil, bring me the soap.”
“I ’ll do nuthing of the kind,” replied Mrs. Malone, ferociously.
“You won’t?”
“Not I.”
“In half a jiffy I ’ll come out there and give you the leathering you deserve for insubordination.”
“Oh!” cried the landlady. “And me here, Bridget Malone.”
“What?” exclaimed Moore, as though suspecting her presence for the first time. “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.”