Tom Moore Part 27

"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 fas.h.i.+on from his lowered alt.i.tude.

"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 s.e.x. 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 selfis.h.!.+ My Lord, hain't they selfis.h.!.+ Halways thinking about 'ow they look; hand eating!--W'y, sir, a girl is nine-tenths happet.i.te 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 a.s.sumes 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.