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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 41656
   :PG.Title: Tom Moore
   :PG.Released: 2012-12-18
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Theodore Burt Sayre
   :DC.Title: Tom Moore
              An Unhistorical Romance, Founded on Certain Happenings in the Life of Ireland's Greatest Poet
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1902
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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TOM MOORE
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      Cover

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      *Here's a health to thee, Tom Moore!*--BYRON

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   .. _`THE DESIRED IDEA FAILED TO MATERIALIZE.`:

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      THE DESIRED IDEA FAILED TO MATERIALIZE.

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      TOM MOORE

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      *An* Unhistorical Romance, Founded
      *on* Certain Happenings *in the* Life
      *of* Ireland's Greatest Poet

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      By THEODORE BURT SAYRE

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      Author of "Two Summer Girls and I"
      "The Son of Carleycroft," Etc.

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      ILLUSTRATED

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      THE MUSSON CO., LIMITED
      TORONTO

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      Copyright, 1902
      By Frederick A. Stokes Company

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      Published in September 1902

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      FOURTH EDITION

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      *To*
      ANDREW MACK

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      *With the author's grateful acknowledgment and appreciation
      of the convincing art and rare personal charm of
      the actor who has done so much to make
      "Tom Moore" a success upon
      the stage*

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   Preface

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In this book the author has endeavored to give to
the reading public an intimate presentation of
one of the more famous of the literary giants
who made the beginning of the last century the most
brilliant period in the history of English Letters since
the days of the Elizabethan authors.

Of Tom Moore's rank and attainments as a poet of
the finest gifts very little need be said.  Posterity has
placed the seal of everlasting approval upon the best of
his work and in the main is admirably ignorant of his
few less worthy productions.  So it need not be feared
that the memory of the author of "Lalla Rookh," "The
Last Rose of Summer," "Love's Young Dream," and,
lastly, the most tender and touching of all love songs,
"Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms,"
will ever be less brightly preserved, less tenderly
treasured, than it has been in the years that have intervened
since his death.

"*Moore has a peculiarity of talent, or rather talents--poetry,
music, voice, all his own; and an expression
in each, which never was, nor will be, possessed by
another....  There is nothing Moore may not do, if
he will but seriously set about it....  To me some of
his Irish Melodies are worth all the epics that ever
were composed,*" wrote the hapless Lord Byron, who
was one of the gifted Irishman's most intimate and
faithful friends.

"*The poet of all circles and the idol of his own.*"

No other words could so fitly describe the position
of Moore in the esteem of the public.  His ballads
are sung by peer and peasant, in drawing-room and
below stairs, and long ago the world at large began
to rival the affection and admiration with which the
life work and memory of the sweetest singer of them
all has been cherished by the little green island which
so proudly proclaims itself as the birthplace of this,
its favorite son.  But of the brilliant poet's early
struggles, failures, successes and ambitions little is
known.  From his own writings and those of Lord
Byron, Sir Walter Scott, Leigh Hunt and Captain
Trelawney, it has been gleaned that there never was
a more faithful friend, a more patient or devoted lover,
a truer husband and fonder father than Thomas
Moore.  His married life was as sweet and tender as
one of his own poems.  Much is known of the happy
years that followed his wedding, but till now no
attempt has been made to picture the days of love and
doubt that preceded the union which was destined
to prove so splendid an example of true connubial
content.  In regard to historical accuracy, it is admitted
that a certain amount of license has been used.  For
the sake of gaining continuity, events spread over a
space of years have been brought within the compass
of months, but aside from this concentration of action,
if it may be so described, the happenings are in the
main not incorrect.

While it is true that Moore was never actually
ejected from society by the Prince of Wales, he did
forfeit for a time the favor of that royal gentleman
until the authorship of certain offensive verses was
generously acknowledged by Lord Byron.  The
incident wherein Moore sells his life-work to McDermot
is pure fiction, but in truth he did succeed in obtaining
from Longmans an advance of £3,000 for "Lalla
Rookh" before it was even planned, an event which
in this chronicle is supposed to occur subsequent to
his rescue from McDermot by Lord Brooking.  Since
the advance really obtained was three times the amount
he is made to demand of the Scotch publisher the
possibility of this particular part of the occurrence is not
to be questioned.

For certain definite and easily comprehended reasons
the real degree of Moore's poverty when he arrived in
London and previous to his talent's recognition by the
Regent, who did accept the dedication and thus insure
the success of his first volume of verses, has been
exaggerated, but in regard to his possession of the
Laureateship of England the story deals with fact.
Nevertheless the correctness of this bestowal of favor
by the Prince of Wales was publicly denied in the
columns of an influential New York newspaper at the
time of the play's first presentation in the metropolis.
For the enlightenment of those who may have been
led into error by this misstatement, at the time
overlooked by the author, they are referred to letter
No. 63, from Moore to his mother, dated Friday, May 20th,
1803, in the first volume of the "Memoirs, Journal,
and Correspondence of Thomas Moore," edited by
Lord John Russell, in which the poet gives his exact
reasons for having recently relinquished the post in
question.

It is also true that the first notable success of Bessie
Dyke as an actress was scored at Kilkenny, Ireland,
instead of London.  As her elder sister, Mary, has no
part in this story, she has been omitted altogether,
though her long and successful career upon the
American stage is a part of the national theatrical history.

So far as the characters herein set forth are
concerned but little explanation is required.  Those
historical have been sketched in accordance with the
accounts of their peculiarities furnished by the
literature of the times.  Several of the most important
people are entirely imaginary, or have been constructed
by combining a number of single individuals into one
personage.

In reply to the anticipated charge that the author
cannot prove that the incidents described in the
progress of Moore's wooing ever happened, he makes bold
to answer that it is equally as impossible to prove that
they did not.

With this explanation, necessary or unnecessary, as
the future will no doubt prove, the book "Tom Moore"
is confided to the mercy of the public which has so
generously welcomed the play.

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   CONTENTS

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   *BOOK ONE*

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   *ONE AFTERNOON IN IRELAND*

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   CHAPTER

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   I.  `Tom Moore goes Angling`_
   II.  `Certain Happenings in Mistress Dyke's School`_
   III.  `Tom Moore entertains Teacher and Pupils`_
   IV.  `The Blackmailing of Tom Moore`_
   V.  `Tom Moore gives Mistress Dyke an Inkling`_
   VI.  `Two Gentlemen of Wealth and Breeding`_
   VII.  `Tom Moore obliges a Friend and gets in Trouble`_

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   *BOOK TWO*

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   *ONE AFTERNOON IN ENGLAND*

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   VIII.  `Introduces Montgomery Julien Ethelbert Spinks`_
   IX.  `Tom Moore receives Calls from Mrs. Malone and Mr. Dyke`_
   X.  `In which the Landlady is played a Trick`_
   XI.  `Tom Moore receives Visits from Two Cobblers and a Clerk`_
   XII.  `In which the Poet warbles to Mrs. Malone`_
   XIII.  `Tom Moore has a Bitter Disappointment and an Unexpected Visitor`_
   XIV.  `Sir Percival Lovelace is favored by Fortune`_

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   *BOOK THREE*

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   *TWO EVENINGS IN HIGH SOCIETY*

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   XV.  `Sets Forth Certain Explanations`_
   XVI.  `Tom Moore separates a Young Lady from her Skirt`_
   XVII.  `Honors are Easy`_
   XVIII.  `Tom Moore moves in Distinguished Company`_
   XIX.  `Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Brummell, and Mr. Moore Hold Council of War`_
   XX.  `Tom Moore makes a Bad Bargain`_
   XXI.  `The Poet falls from Favor`_

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   *BOOK FOUR*

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   *A NIGHT OF ADVENTURE*

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   XXII.  `Tom Moore receives a Proposal of Marriage`_
   XXIII.  `The Poet has Callers and gives a Dinner-Party`_
   XXIV.  `Tom Moore hears of a Political Appointment`_
   XXV.  `Sir Incognito receives a Warm Welcome`_
   XXVI.  `Tom Moore's Servant proves a Friend in Need`_
   XXVII.  `The Poet regains Royal Favor`_

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The Play, founded by Mr. Sayre on the same
incidents as the novel, was produced by Messrs. Rich
and Harris, with great success at the Herald Square
Theatre, New York, on the evening of the Thirty-first of
August, 1901, with the following cast:

::

   TOM MOORE, Ireland's favorite poet . . . . . . . . .  ANDREW MACK
   PRINCE OF WALES, Regent of England . . . . . . . . .  MYRON CALICE
   SIR PERCIVAL LOVELACE, Boon Companion to the Prince   GEORGE F. NASH
   LORD MOIRA, Moore's friend and patron  . . . . . . .  THEODORE BABCOCK
   ROBIN DYKE, an Irish minor poet  . . . . . . . . . .  GEORGE W. DEYO
   SHERIDAN, the famous wit . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  GILES SHINE
   BEAU BRUMMELL, a leader of society . . . . . . . . .  HARRY P. STONE
   TERENCE FARRELL, a young Irishman  . . . . . . . . .  FRANK MAYNE
   BUSTER, Moore's servant  . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  EDWARD J. HERON
   MCDERMOTT, a publisher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  RICHARD J. DILLON
   SERVANT  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  JOHN NAPIER

::

   MICKEY     }            {  JOHNNY COOKE
   WILLIE     }            {  WILLIE COOKE
   PATSEY     }            {  AUGUSTUS WILKES
   DICKY      }            {  GEORGIE CADIEUX
   JOHNNY     }            {  JOHNNY WILKES
   TOMMY      }  School    {  HAROLD GRAU
   LIZZIE     }  Children  {  VIVIAN MARTIN
   NELLIE     }            {  ETHEL CLIFTON
   MAGGIE     }            {  MARY McMANUS
   KATIE      }            {  SYLVIA CASHIN
   BRIDGET    }            {  ISABEL BARRCACOLE
   MARY       }            {  LORETTA RUGE

::

   BESSIE DYKE, an Irish girl . . . . . . . . . .  JOSEPHINE LOVETT
   WINNIE FARRELL, an heiress . . . . . . . . . .  SUSIE WILKERSON
   MRS. FITZ-HERBERT, the Prince's favorite . . .  JANE PEYTON
   MRS. MALONE, Moore's landlady  . . . . . . . .  MAGGIE FIELDING
   Courtiers, Ladies, Footmen, Servants, etc.

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.. _`TOM MOORE GOES ANGLING`:

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   Book One

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   |   "*The time I've lost in wooing,*
   |   *In watching and pursuing*
   |     *The light, that lies*
   |     *In woman's eyes,*
   |   *Has been my heart's undoing*"

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   TOM MOORE

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   *Chapter One*

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   *TOM MOORE GOES ANGLING*

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Mr. Thomas Moore was certainly in a
very cheerful mood.  This was evidenced
by the merry tune with which he was
delighting himself, and a jealous-minded thrush, with
head cocked on one side, waited with ill-concealed
impatience for his rival to afford him the opportunity of
entering into competition.  As this was not forthcoming,
the bird took wing with an angry flirt of the tail
and mental objurgation levelled at the unconscious
head of the dapper young Irishman, who lilted gayly
as he wandered along the path worn in the sward of
the meadow by the school children on their way to
and from the institution of learning presided over by
Mistress Elizabeth Dyke.

   |   "The time I've lost in wooing,
   |   In watching and pursuing
   |     The light, that lies
   |     In woman's eyes,
   |   Has been my heart's undoing."
   |

Moore paused in his ditty and sat down on a
convenient stone, while he wiped his brow with a ragged
silk handkerchief which, though of unmistakably
ancient origin, was immaculately clean.

"Faith," he murmured, "there's no fiction in that
last stanza.  It's broken-hearted I am, or as near it as
an Irishman can be without too much exertion."

He sighed almost unhappily, and drawing a knife
from his breeches pocket proceeded to manufacture a
whistle from the bark on the end of the long willow
wand he had cut a few moments before to serve as a
fishing-rod.

This last was accomplished after some little effort
accompanied by much pursing of lips and knitting of
brows.

His labors completed, Moore regarded the whistle
with the critical approval of an expert, and putting it
to his mouth blew a shrill blast.  As the result was
eminently satisfactory, he bestowed the toy in the
crown of his beaver and, crossing his legs
comfortably, proceeded to take his ease.

His appearance was decidedly attractive.  While
quite a little below middle size, his wiry figure was so
well proportioned that in the absence of other men
nearer the ordinary standard of height, he would have
passed as a fine figure of a lad.  He carried himself
with easy grace, but affected none of the mincing,
studied mannerisms of the dandy of the period.  He
had a round, jolly face, a pleasing though slightly
satirical mouth, an impudent nose, and a pair of fine eyes,
so brightly good-humored and laughingly intelligent,
that no one could have looked into their clear depths
without realizing that this was no ordinary youth.
And yet at the period in his career from which dates
the beginning of this chronicle Tom Moore's fortunes
were at a decidedly low ebb.  Disgusted and angry
at the ill success which attended his attempts to sell his
verses to the magazines and papers of Dublin, for at
this time it was the exception, not the rule, when a
poem from his pen was printed and paid for, Moore
gathered together his few traps, kissed his mother and
sisters good-bye, shook the hand of his father, then
barrackmaster of an English regiment resident in
Ireland, and hied himself to the sylvan beauties of the
little town of Dalky.  Here he secured lodgings for
little more than a trifle and began the revision of his
translation of the Odes of Anacreon, a task he had
undertaken with great enthusiasm a year previous.
Thus it was that he chanced to be wandering through
the fields on fishing bent this bright and beautiful
morning in the year of our Lord 179-.

.. _`Tom Moore`:

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   Tom Moore

A small boy, barefooted and shock-headed, came
across the meadow in the direction of the schoolhouse
visible in the distance on the crest of a long, slowly
rising hill.  He carried a bundle of books and an old
slate tightly clutched under one arm, while from the
hand left disengaged swung a long switch with which
he smartly decapitated the various weeds which had
achieved altitude sufficient to make them worthy of
his attention.

Noticing Moore for the first time, the boy's face
brightened and lost its crafty look of prematurely
developed cunning and anxiety, as he approached with
a perceptible quickening of his gait.

"Is it you, Mr. Moore?" he said, a rich brogue
flavoring his utterance.

"Unless I am greatly mistaken, Micky, you have
guessed my identity," admitted the young man,
making a playful slap with his rod at the new-comer's bare
shins, which the lad evaded with an agility that
bespoke practice, at the same time skilfully parrying
with his switch.

"Goin' fishin'?"

"Shooting, my boy.  Don't you perceive my
fowling-piece?" replied Moore, waving his fish-pole in
the air.

"Sure," said Micky, grinning broadly, "you will
have your joke."

"None of the editors will, so, if I did n't, who
would?" responded Moore, with a smile not altogether
untinged by bitterness.  "Where are you going,
Micky?"

"To school, sir, bad cess to it."

"Such enthusiasm in the pursuit of education is
worthy of the highest commendation, my lad."

"Is it?" said Micky doubtfully.  "What's that,
Mr. Moore?"

"Commendation?"

"Yis."

"Well, if I said you were a good boy, what would
that be?"

"Father would say it was a d--n lie."

Moore chuckled.

"Well, we will let it go at that.  You seem to be in
a great hurry, Micky."

"So do you, sir."

"Humph!" said Moore.  "I perceive you are
blessed with an observing mind.  Have you observed
the whereabouts of a trout brook that is located
somewhere in this neighborhood?"

"Yis," replied Micky, himself an enthusiastic fisherman.
"I have that.  Don't ye know the place, Mr. Moore?"

"Not I, my lad, but, since Providence has sent you
along to show me the way, I 'll speedily be possessed
of that knowledge."

Micky looked doubtfully in the direction of the
schoolhouse.  It was almost time for the afternoon
session, but the day was too beautiful to be spent in
the dull depths of the school without regret.

"I 'd show you the way, sir, gladly, but it 'll make
me late."

"Are you afraid of Mistress Dyke?" queried
Moore, noticing the boy's hesitation.

"Yis, sir."

"So am I, my lad."

Micky looked surprised.  That this dashing young
blade in whose person were apparently embodied all
the manly virtues, at least from the lad's point of
view, should stand in dread of such a soft-eyed,
red-cheeked little bundle of femininity as his schoolmistress
was a matter beyond his juvenile comprehension.

"And why, sir?" asked the boy curiously.

"She 's very pretty," replied Moore.  "When you
are older you will understand what it is to be in awe
of a trim little miss with the blue sky in her eyes and
a ripple of red merriment for a mouth.  In the
meantime you shall show me the way to the brook."

"But she 'll lick me," objected Micky, numerous
ferulings keenly in mind.

"Not she, my laddybuck.  To-day I 'm coming to
visit the school.  Tell her that and she 'll not whack
you at all."

"Won't she?"

"No, she will be so pleased, she will more than
likely kiss you."

"Then why don't you go and tell her yourself?
You would like the kiss, would n't you?"

"Micky," said Moore solemnly, "you have
discovered my secret.  I *would*.  Ah me! my lad, how
little we appreciate such dispensations of Providence
when we are favored with them.  Now you, you
raparee--you would much rather she did n't practise
osculation upon you."

Micky nodded.  He did not understand what his
companion meant, but he was quite convinced that the
assertion made by him was absolutely correct.

What a beautiful thing is faith!

"A pretty teacher beats the devil, Micky, and you
have the prettiest in Ireland.  I wish I could be taught
by such a preceptress.  I 'd need instruction both day
and night, and that last is no lie, even at this day,
if the lesson were to be in love," he added, a twinkle
in his eyes, though his face was perfectly sober.

"Sure," said Micky, "she don't think you nade
lessons.  I heard her tell Squire Farrell's daughter
blarney ran off your tongue like water off a duck's
back."

"What is that?" said Moore.  "I 'll have to
investigate this matter thoroughly."

At this moment the metallic clang of an old
fashioned hand-bell sounded faintly down the hillside
mellowed into comparative melodiousness by the
intervening distance.

"Ah," said Moore, "your absence has been reported
to Mistress Dyke, and she has tolled the bell."

It seemed as though the young Irishman's execrable
pun decided the ragged urchin that the way of the
transgressor might be hard, for, without further
hesitation, he took to his heels and fled in the direction
of the schoolhouse.

After a moment's thought Moore followed him,
beating time with the willow fishing-rod to the song
which half unconsciously issued from his lips as he
turned his steps in the direction of the headquarters
of Mistress Bessie Dyke.

Tom Moore was going angling, but not for trout.





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.. _`CERTAIN HAPPENINGS IN MISTRESS DYKE'S SCHOOL`:

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   *Chapter Two*


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   *CERTAIN HAPPENINGS IN MISTRESS DYKE'S SCHOOL*

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Over her desk, waiting for developments,
leaned Mistress Dyke.  A moment passed,
then the tousled head of the tardy Micky
appeared above the level of the bench behind which
he had secured shelter after carefully crawling on
hands and knees from the door, having by extreme
good fortune, made the hazardous journey undetected.
Only the fatally unwelcome interest displayed in this
performance by the red-headed boy on the front row
prevented the success of Micky's strategy.  As it was,
the blue eyes of Bessie met his with a glance of reproof
as he slid noiselessly into his place.

"Micky."

The boy rose reluctantly to his feet.

Bessie looked at him severely.  To his youthful mind
she appeared very stern indeed; but, if the truth were
known, to the ordinary adult eye she presented no
fiercer exterior than that ordinarily produced by a
slight feeling of irritation upon the aspect of a kitten
of tender age.  Smiles always lurked in Bessie's big
blue eyes, and little waves of mirth were ever ready
to ripple out from the corners of her mouth at the
slightest provocation, so it can readily be understood
that it was no easy task for her to sternly interrogate
the freckle-faced youth who, beneath her disapproving
gaze, shifted uneasily from one bare foot to the other.

Mistress Dyke ruled by love, and if she did not love
by rule, it is merely another instance where exception
can be taken to the old saw which so boldly and
incorrectly states that a good maxim must of necessity
be reversible.

"Why are you late, Micky?" demanded Bessie.

"Sure, mistress, I dunno," was the hopeless response.

"You don't know, Micky?  How foolish!"

"Yis 'm," assented Micky.  "I was foolish to be late."

Bessie smiled and then tried to deceive the school
into the belief that it was only the beginning of a
yawn by patting her mouth with a dimpled palm.  The
school knew better and anxiety grew less.

"But there must be some reason for it," she persisted.

"I know," said a little lad with long yellow curls,
which were made doubly brilliant by the red flannel
shirt that enveloped him, materially assisted by
diminutive trousers, with a patch of goodly proportions upon
the bosom.  "I saw him goin' fishin' wid Mr. Moore."

"Tattle-tale!  Tattle-tale," came in reprimanding
chorus from the other pupils.  Dicky, quite unabashed
by this disapproval, made a gesture of defiance and
returned to his place.  Unfortunately the copper-tipped
brogan of one Willy Donohue, who chanced to be
sitting immediately in the rear of the youthful
informer, was deftly inserted beneath Dicky as he started
to seat himself.

The result of this was that the cherubic Richard
arose, with an exclamation of pain and surprise, much
more quickly than he sat down.

"Dicky, you may remain after school.  I want no
tell-tales here," said Bessie.

"Teacher, Willy Donohue put his foot in me seat,"
expostulated Dicky, on whom the lesson was quite
thrown away.

"Willy shall stay after school, also."

"Ah-h-h!" remarked Dicky, mollified at the prospect
of his unkind fate being shared by an old-time
enemy.

"I wish you wuz big enough to lick," growled
Willy, under his breath.  "Your own mother would n't
know you after the flakin' I 'd give you.  I 'd snatch
you baldheaded, baby."

Dicky turned his head far enough over his shoulder
to prevent Mistress Dyke from observing the
protrusion of his tongue, and was so unlucky as to be hit
fairly in the eye with a paper pellet, amply
moistened, propelled with all the force the vigorous lungs
of the prettiest girl in school, aided by a tube of paper
torn from the back of her geography, could impart
to it.

"Teacher, Milly O'Connor hit me in the eye wid
a spit ball," snivelled Dicky, who, being of tender
years, did not share in the general masculine scholastic
worship of the youthful belle, who was admired and
fought over by the larger boys, on whom she bestowed
her favors quite impartially.

"Oh dear!" sighed Bessie.  "Was there ever such
a lot of children?  Milly, rise."

Milly stood up without any visible sign of
contrition or embarrassment.  She was a pretty,
dark-curled lassie of ten, dressed neatly and becomingly,
which made her doubly prominent in her present
surroundings, for most of the children were of such
poverty-stricken parentage that the virtue possessed
by their wearing apparel consisted almost entirely in
sheltering and hiding rather than ornamenting their
small persons.

"What shall I do to punish you?" asked Bessie,
wearily.

"You might ferule her, teacher," suggested Dicky,
good-humoredly coming to the rescue.

"Dicky, mind your own business," said Bessie
severely, "or I 'll ferule you.  Now I shall punish
you both.  Milly, kiss Dicky immediately."

"I don't want to kiss a tattle-tale," said Milly, who
placed fully the proper valuation on her caresses.

"Exactly," said Bessie.  "This is a punishment,
not a reward of merit."

"Not for Dicky," corrected Milly.  "He will like
it, teacher."

But here the little lady was in grievous error, for
when she, resignedly obedient, approached the small
rascal, he promptly burst into tears and, dropping on
the floor, hid his head under the bench.  This was
more than Bessie had bargained for, and she was
about to motion Milly to return to her seat when
Patsy, a youth with carroty red locks already mentioned,
rose from his place on the front bench, burning
with the noble flame of self-sacrifice.

"She can kiss me instead, teacher," he announced
heroically, "and you can let Dicky off this time."

Bessie laughed outright in spite of herself, but Milly,
regarding Patsy's suggestion as nothing short of
positive insult, turned her back on the admiring gaze of
the gallant youth.

"I think we will excuse you, Patsy.  Dicky is punished
sufficiently, and I fancy Milly will behave herself
in the future."

Patsy sat down with a gulp of regret, not comforted
by Milly's whisper:

"I 'd do anything rather than kiss that red-headed
monkey."

Micky, to whom she had imparted this welcome
information, nodded approval.

"Wait till I catch him after school," he murmured
hostilely.  "I 'll dust his jacket for him."

Meanwhile Bessie had rescued Dicky from his grief
and apprehension, and, when the curly-headed youth
had had his nose blown and resumed his seat, school
assumed its wonted quiet until the sight of a tiny
mouse nibbling a bit of cracker under an unoccupied
bench drew forth a scream of terror from Milly, who
considered herself entitled by age to the enjoyment of
all the follies peculiar to her sex.

"A mouse!" she shrieked.  "Oh, teacher, teacher,
save me!"

And she immediately sought a position of safety
upon the seat.

Pandemonium broke loose.  The other little girls
not to be outdone became equally as frightened, and
followed Milly in her ascent, an example which was
most shamefully emulated by Bessie herself, with her
desk as the base of operations.

Patsy plunged headlong in the direction of the small
disturber bent on demolishing it with his geography.
The other boys were equally prompt in following the
chase, with the exception of Micky, who, realizing this
was an excellent opportunity for administering a
rebuke to his latest rival's amatory ambition, stepped
quickly behind his enemy and kicked him in the place
handiest at the time with an enthusiasm worthy of
a better cause.  Patsy, justly aggrieved, abandoned
the pursuit, and, rising to his feet, smote Micky in the
neck with a force that jarred him mentally as well
as physically.  Retaliation followed in a swinging blow
on Patsy's snub nose, and a clinch ensued which
continued in spite of Bessie's desperate remonstrances
until Tom Moore put his head in the window,
realized the necessity for prompt action, ran to the door,
entered, and, seizing the combatants by their collars,
tore them apart by main strength.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOM MOORE ENTERTAINS TEACHER AND PUPILS`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Three*


.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE ENTERTAINS TEACHER AND PUPILS*

.. vspace:: 2

Moore held the boys at arm's length, thus
frustrating their desperate attempts to
continue the battle, and glancing up at Bessie,
who was still perched on the desk, favored her with
a look of mingled astonishment and admiration.

"What a nice quiet time you have been having!
Quite like a baby Donnybrook," he remarked cheerfully.
"Are you trying to fly, Bessie, that you are
up so high?"

"Oh, Tom, you came just in time."

"That is a habit of mine," replied Moore, and then,
turning his attention to his prisoners, he continued:

"Now, my bully gladiators, what is the cause of
this gentle argument?"

"Misther Moore, he said I looked like a monkey
the other day," answered Micky, harking back to an
insult that had long rankled in his memory.

"He kicked me, he did," said Patsy, "and I gave
him a oner in the neck for it, I did."

"Red-head!" ejaculated Micky in tones of scorn.
"He wanted Milly to kiss him, the puckorn!"

"Which is Milly?" inquired Moore, scanning the
other scholars interrogatively.

"I am," answered that young lady, delightfully
free from embarrassment.

"I don't blame you at all, Patsy," observed the
poet regarding the youthful belle with approval.  "Are
you desperately fond of her?"

"To be sure," responded Patsy, valiantly.  "I 'm
going to marry her."

"As though I 'd marry *that*," remarked Milly, in
accents by no means admiring.

"Never mind that, Miss Milly!  An honest man's
love is not to be scorned even when it's in short
breeches," said Moore, reprovingly.  "So it is
jealousy that is at the bottom of this quarrel?  Faith,
I 'll settle it right here.  Neither of you lads shall
have Milly.  I 'll marry her myself."

"All right," said Milly, cocking her eye at Bessie,
"if teacher has no objection, I haven't."

"What an idea!" ejaculated the schoolmistress,
descending from her desk.  "Tom, how can you talk
such nonsense?"

"Don't mind her, Milly.  It's only jealousy," said
Moore.  "Boys, this fight is postponed till after
hours."  Then he added, in a whisper, "I 'll referee
it myself.  Go to your seats."

"Each of you boys will remain in an hour after
school is dismissed," said Bessie, severely.

Moore stepped quickly to the desk where she had
seated herself preparatory to continuing the session.

"Oh murder, no!" he expostulated in an undertone.
"How can I talk to you, Bessie, if they are here?"

"Do you wish to talk to me, Mr. Moore?" asked
the guileless maiden, as though surprised.

"I am dying to, Bessie," said he.

"On second thoughts, boys," she announced, "since
Mr. Moore has interceded for you, you need not stay
in, but there is to be no more fighting after school.
I don't like quarrelling."

"Then you have made up your mind to be an old
maid, have you?" murmured Moore.

Bessie tossed her head disdainfully.

"Are you sure the mouse is gone?" she asked,
evading the question.

"I think I see it there," exclaimed Moore.  "Look
out, Bessie!"

"Oh!" cried the girl, relapsing into fright and
seizing hold of her companion for safety's sake.
"Don't let the horrid thing come near me!"

Moore chuckled and released himself from her
appealing grasp.

"Please be more respectful, Mistress Dyke," he
said reprovingly.  "I 'll not have you seizing hold of
me like this.  It is entirely too familiar treatment for
a young unmarried man to submit to at such short
notice and unchaperoned.  Have you no bringing up
at all?  What do you suppose my mother would say
if she thought I permitted you to take such liberties?"

"Oh, never mind your mother," said Bessie pettishly,
deciding that she was in no particular danger
at the present moment.

"That is nice advice to give a young lad,"
commented Moore, drawing a rose from his button-hole.
"See, Bessie, I have brought you a posey, the last
blossom on the bush.  Some day, if I have the time,
I shall write a poem on the subject."

"Thank you, Tom."

As she spoke, Bessie put the flower in a glass of
water on the desk that already held a bunch of clover
plucked for her by the grimy fingers of one of her
pupils.

Dicky stood up and raised his hand.

"Please, teacher," he lisped, "is Mr. Moore going
to sing for us?"

"Sure as life," said Moore, his vanity tickled.

A murmur of approval came from the children.  The
young Irishman had amused them with his fine voice
more than once, extracting in return from their
evident enjoyment quite as much pleasure as his music
afforded them.

"What shall it be, teacher?" he asked, turning to
Bessie.

"Oh, anything but one of those odes from Anacreon,
Tom.  They are simply terrible."

"But you read them all."

"I blush to admit it," answered the girl, frowning
at his lack of tact in recalling such an indiscreet
proceeding.

"Ah, Bessie," he murmured tenderly, "I'd admit
anything for the sake of seeing the roses steal in
and out of your dear cheeks.  Why, it is like watching
the sunset sweeping over the clouds in the west on
a summer evening."

"Sing, Thomas Moore," commanded the girl, but
a softer look came into her eyes as she settled
comfortably back in her chair to listen.

"I 'd like to pass my life singing to you, Bessie."

"That's all very well, Tom, but the notes from your
throat are not taken at the bank."

"Well," retorted he, cheerily, "to get even, it is
not many bank-notes I take."

Moore, after fetching a high stool from a distant
corner of the room, perched himself upon it and began
to sing, the school-room echoing with the clear
ringing voice that was destined in after years to be the
delight of the most fashionable circle in Europe.
He had selected an old ballad setting forth the
emotions felt by a world-worn traveller as he threaded
the streets of his native village after years of
wandering abroad, and, as the chorus was composed of
the various song-game rhymes sung by the children
in their play, it was quite familiar to the pupils of
Mistress Dyke, who joined in heartily.

"Ready," cried Moore, beckoning the children from
their places.  "Now, all together.

   |   "'I came to see Miss Jenny O'Jones,
   |     Jenny O'Jones, Jenny O'Jones,
   |   I came to see Miss Jenny O'Jones,
   |     And how is she to-day?'"

.. _`"'Ready,' cried Moore, 'Now, all together.'"`:

.. figure:: images/img-020.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "'Ready,' cried Moore, 'Now, all together.'"

   "'Ready,' cried Moore, 'Now, all together.'"

.. class:: noindent

Hand in hand the children, their shrill voices raised
tunefully under the leadership of Moore, marched
gayly forward and back, the poet prancing as
joyously as any of them, as he beat time with a ruler.

"Second verse," he said, and, enjoying every note,
sang it through to the huge delight of his audience,
who, when the chorus was reached a second time,
danced around him in a circle, their pleasure proving
so infectious that Bessie herself deserted her desk to
take part in the wind-up, which was both uproarious
and prolonged.

"That will do you," said Moore, mopping his face
with his handkerchief.  "Faith, it is great fun we
have been having, Bessie."

"So it appears," she replied, rapping on the desk
for order.

"You have a fine lot of pupils, Bessie.  I 'd like
to be father of them all."

"Mr. Moore!" exclaimed the girl, horrified at such
a wish.

"I mean I 'd like to have a family as smart as they
look," explained Moore, helping himself to a chair.

"That would not require much effort," replied the
girl, coldly.

"But it would take time," suggested the graceless
young joker.  Then he continued, as Bessie gave him
a freezing glance, "I mean, never having been
married, I don't know, so I will have to take your word
for it."

"You deserve to be punished for your impudence,
Tom Moore."

"Since I 'm a bachelor, that is easy brought about,
Bessie."

"Who would marry such a rogue as you?"

"I 'm not going to betray the ladies' confidence in
my honor by giving you a list of their names," replied
Moore, virtuously.  Then he added softly:

"I know something--I mean *some one*--I deserve,
whom I am afraid I won't get."

"Sooner or later we all get our deserts," said
Bessie, wisely.

"I want her for more than dessert," he answered.
"For three meals of love a day and a light lunch in
the evening."

"It is time to dismiss school."

"I am not sorry for that; send the darlings home."

"And another thing, Tom Moore, you must never
come here again during school hours.  It is impossible
to control the children when you are around."

Moore laughed.

"You had them nicely controlled when I arrived,
didn't you?" said he.  "Oh, well, I'll come later
and stay longer.  Dismiss them."

Bessie rang the bell, and school broke up for the
day immediately.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BLACKMAILING OF TOM MOORE`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Four*


.. class:: center medium

   *THE BLACKMAILING OF TOM MOORE*

.. vspace:: 2

After bidding good-bye to the visitor most
of the children crowded noisily out of the
door, rejoicing at their resumption of
freedom, but Patsy, he of the red hair, seated himself
deliberately on the front bench and immediately
became deeply interested in his arithmetic, his
presence for the moment being completely overlooked by
Moore, whose attention was attracted by the attempt
of a ragged little miss to make an unnoticed exit.

"Little girl," said Moore, gently, "why are you
going without saying good-bye to me?  What have
I done to deserve such treatment from a young lady?"

The child thus reproached, a tiny blonde-haired
maiden, dressed in a faded and ragged frock, looked
timidly at her questioner, and flushed to her temples.

"I thought you would n't want to say good-bye
to me, sir," she answered, shyly.

"And why not, alanna?"

"'Cause I 'm poor," she whispered.

A tender look came into Moore's eyes and he crossed
to the side of the child, his generous heart full of pity
for the little one's embarrassment.

"I 'm poor, too," he said, patting her yellow curls.
"Where do you live, my dear?"

"Down by the Mill, sir, with my auntie."

"And is this the best dress she can give you?" he
asked, trying the texture of the little gown and finding
it threadbare and thin.

The child looked down at her feet, for the moment
abashed, then raising her eyes to the young man's
face, read only sympathy and tenderness there, and,
thus encouraged, answered bravely:

"It is better than *hers*."

"Then we can't complain, dear, can we?  Of course
not, but is n't it very thin?"

"Yes, sir, but I would n't mind if it was a bit
more stylish."

Moore looked at Bessie, smiling at this characteristic
manifestation of femininity.

"The size of her!" he said.  "With a woman's
vanity already."

Then, turning to the child again, he continued:

"Well, we poor people must stick together.  I 'll
call on your aunt to-morrow."

"Will you?" cried the girl in delight.  "And you 'll
sing to us?"

"That I will," said Moore, heartily.  "Now run
along like a good girl, and mind me, dear, never be
ashamed of your honest poverty.  Remember that the
best man of us all slept in a manger."

"Yes, sir," responded the child, happily, "I 'll not
forget."

As she started for the door Moore called her back
and put a shilling in her little pink palm.

"What will you do with it?" he asked, chucking
her under the chin.

"Buy a ribbon, sir."

"A ribbon?" echoed Moore in imitation of her
jubilant tone.

"For me auntie."

"Bless your generous little heart," said Moore,
drawing another coin from his pocket.  "There is
the like of it for yourself.  Buy one for each of you.
Now off you go.  Good-bye."

The child ran lightly to the door, but, as she reached
the steps, turned, as though struck by a sudden
thought, and beckoned to Moore.

"You may kiss me, sir," she announced with as
much dignity as though she were bestowing upon her
benefactor some priceless gift, as indeed she was, for
certainly she possessed nothing more valuable.  Then,
after he had availed himself of her offer, she courtesied
with childish grace and trotted gayly off, her two
precious shillings tightly clutched in her hand.
Believing himself to be alone with Bessie, Moore
hastened toward her with outstretched arms, but was
suddenly made aware of the presence of a third party
by Patsy, who discreetly cleared his throat as he sat
immersed in his book.

Moore turned to Bessie.

"What is that lad doing there?" he whispered.
"Does n't he know school is over?"

"How should I know?" she answered, though a
glint of fun in her eyes showed she was not without
her suspicion as to the reason of Patsy's presence.

"You might ask him what he wants," she suggested
encouragingly.

"I will," said Moore, approaching the interrupter of
his wooing with a disapproving expression upon his
face.

"Look here, my son, don't you know school is
dismissed?"

"Yis, sir," replied Patsy, loudly.

"And yet you are still here?"

"Yis, sir."

"Bad luck to you, can't you say anything but 'Yis, sir'?"

"No, sir," responded Patsy, not at all intimidated
by Moore's glowering looks.

"That is better," said Moore.  "You are going
home now?"

"No, sir."

"There you go again!  Faith, I wish you would say
'Yes' and stick to it.  What are you doing here at this
unseasonable hour?"

"I wish to study me lessons," replied Patsy,
enthusiastically.

Fairly dashed, Moore returned to Bessie.

"I never saw a lad so fond of his books before,"
said he.

"It is a new thing for Patsy," said Bessie with a
laugh.  "There is no bigger dunce in school."

"Is that so?" asked Moore.  "Faith, I'm beginning
to understand."

Patsy looked sharply over his book at the young poet.

"Can't you study at home, my lad?"

"No, sir."

"Will you never say 'Yes, sir,' again?"

"No, sir."

"Now look here, my young friend, if you say
'Yes, sir,' or 'No, sir,' again I 'll beat the life out of
you."

"*All right*, sir," responded Patsy, plunging his face
still deeper into his book.

Moore regarded his small tormentor with a look of
dismay.

"You will strain your eyes with so much study,
Patsy," he said, warningly.  "That is what you will
do,--and go blind and have to be led around by a
stick, leaning on a small dog."

A suppressed giggle from Bessie drew his attention
to his mistake.

"It 's the other way round I mean.  Are n't you
afraid of that sad fate, my bucko?"

Patsy shook his head and continued his energetic
investigation of his arithmetic, while Moore sought
counsel from the schoolmistress, who was keenly
enjoying her admirer's discomfiture.

"What will I say to the little tinker, Bessie?" he
asked, ruefully.

"How should I know, Tom?  I am his teacher and
will have to help him if he wishes it."

"What is it troubles you?" demanded Moore,
looking down on Patsy's red head.

"A sum, sir," replied Patsy.

"Show it to me."

The boy designated an example with his finger.

"'If a man sold forty eggs at one ha'penny an
egg,'" read Moore from the book, "'how many eggs--'?"

Shutting up the arithmetic, he put his hand in his
pocket and jingled its contents merrily.

"Is the answer to this problem sixpence?" he asked.

"Oh, no, sir," replied Patsy ingenuously.

"What is, then?" demanded Moore, baffled.

"Two shillings," announced the graceless youth.

"I 'll give you one," said Moore, suggesting a
compromise, but Patsy was not to be so lowered in his
price.

"*Two* is the answer," he replied in a determined tone.

Moore yielded without further protest and produced
the money.

"There you are, you murdering blackmailer," said
he.  "Now get out before I warm your jacket."

Patsy seized his books, and, dodging a cuff aimed at
him by his victim, ran out of the schoolhouse with a
derisive yell.

"Bessie," said Moore, solemnly, "that little
spalpeen will surely come to some bad end."

"And be hanged?" asked the girl, taking a
handful of goose-quills from her desk preparatory to
sharpening them into pens with an old knife drawn
from the same storehouse.

"Or get married, my sweet girl, though they say
death is better than torture," replied Moore, approaching
the schoolmistress.  "Do you know it cost me
two shillings to get a talk with you?"

Bessie smiled and finished a pen with exquisite care.

"Talk is cheap," she observed, carelessly.

"Whoever said that never called at your school,
Bessie Dyke," said Moore, perching himself upon her
desk.  "Turn your face a bit the other way, if you
please."

As he spoke he took the girl's round chin in his
hands and moved her head until only a side view of
her pretty face could be obtained from his post of
vantage.

"Do you like my profile so much, Tom?" she asked,
submitting docilely to his direction.

"It's not that, Bessie," answered Moore, "it's
because I can't stand two such eyes at once.  Now
there is but one of them looking at me.  And such
an eye!  My heart's jumping under my jacket like
a tethered bullfrog with the glance of it.  Ah, Bessie,
there is only one in the wide world like it."

"And where is that?" asked the girl, a shade of
jealousy perceptible in her inquiry.

"Just around the bend of your nose, mavourneen,"
laughed Moore.  "Filled with melted moonshine are
both of them.  Sure, one soft look from those eyes
would make a cocked hat out of starlight."

"Would it?" murmured Bessie, charmed in spite
of herself.  "Do you really mean all you say?"

"Mean it?  It's poor justice my words do your
beauty, Bessie dear.  You have the sauciest, darlingest,
scornfullest nose, and such a mouth!  Why, to
look at it makes my lips pucker."

"A lemon would do the same," observed Bessie,
foiling Moore's attempt to snatch a kiss by sitting
back in her chair.  "You need not think I believe
all your nonsense, Thomas Moore."

"Don't you believe what I have just said, Bessie?"

"Not I.  You need n't flatter yourself."

"Why needn't I?  Will you do it for me?"

"I have something better to do," replied Bessie,
paring another quill with much vigor.

"That is what I call a cutting remark," said Moore,
looking at the knife.

Bessie sighed, and temporarily abandoned her labors.

"Tom Moore," she said solemnly, "why will you
make such awful puns?"

"Practice makes perfect, my dear.  If I keep on,
some day I may make a good one."

"I wonder if there ever was a good pun?"

"Keep on wondering.  You look like an angel
pondering over the fit of her wings."

"Tom, that is sacrilegious."

"You 're wrong, Bessie, it's only poetry."

Bessie frowned.  Like all good women, she did not
like to hear religion spoken of lightly, so she rebuked
the erring Thomas with a glance.

"You are pretty even when you frown, Bessie,"
remarked the unregenerate versifier.

Bessie attempted to look doubtful as to the truth of
this last statement.

"Why should n't you believe me?  Has n't your
mirror showed you day after day what I am telling
you?"

As he spoke Moore took her hand in his, not
noticing that one slender finger was wound round by a
bandage.  Bessie gave a little cry of pain.

"What is the matter?"

"You hurt me," she answered, exhibiting her finger.

"I 'm more than sorry, Bessie, but what ails your
pinkie?"

"I burned my hand."

"Shall I burn the other for you?" asked Moore,
extending his in invitation.

"How could you?" she demanded, suspecting a trap.

"Why," said Moore, "with a kiss half as warm as
my heart."

Bessie giggled, then tried to resume her dignity, but
Moore had no intention of letting such an advantage
pass unutilized, and, seizing her uninjured hand,
planted a hearty smack in its warm palm.

"*Mr. Moore!*"

"Mistress Dyke!"

"I shan't allow you to stay here if you cannot
behave in a sensible manner," she threatened.

"I'm not sensible?"

"Not now."

"Then, if I am not sensible, I am unconscious, and,
if I am unconscious, I am not responsible for what I do."

Moore with this justification made a sudden attempt
to embrace Bessie, who, always prepared for such
lawlessness, evaded his outstretched arms and retaliated
by pricking him with her knife, a proceeding which
resulted in the instant removal of the poet's person
from her desk, accompanied by an ejaculation that
sounded suspiciously like profanity.

"What did you say, Tom?" asked Bessie with a
gurgle of satisfaction.  For once she had the better of
her resourceful admirer.

"You will have to guess that, Bessie," he remarked.
"Do you think that is a nice way to treat a young man?"

"Oh, it was only a joke," said Bessie, quite unrepentant.

"Your jokes are too pointed," said Moore.  "After
this please refrain from any that are sharp enough to
go clean through doe-skin breeches and I 'll thank you."

The door opened suddenly and Dicky, still resplendent
in red shirt and golden curls, appeared, carrying
a book.  He halted on the threshold and looked
inquiringly at his teacher.

"Egad, it's the cherub!" exclaimed Moore.

Taking courage, Dicky toddled in, book in hand, and
approached Moore, who gazed wonderingly down at him.

"Well, my lad, what do you want?"

"Please, sir," piped Dicky, "I wants help wid me
lessons," and he held up his book.  Bessie stuffed her
handkerchief into her mouth to smother her laughter,
while a look of understanding came into Moore's eyes.

"Oh, you want help, do you?" said the latter.

"Yis, sir, wid me aris'metic," announced Dicky,
laboring earnestly to bring forth the big word and
catching some of the edges with his teeth in spite of
the exertion.  "It's a sum, sir."

"A sum indeed?" echoed Moore.

"Yis, sir, and the answer is one shillin', sir."

Moore looked over at Bessie, who almost choked
and had to seek relief in coughing.  Then he regarded
the recently arrived blackmailer with a glance that he
vainly endeavored to make severe, but Dicky perceived
the twist of mirth at the sides of his victim's mouth,
and took heart accordingly.

"A shilling, my young Jack Sheppard?" said
Moore, feeling in his pocket.  "I 'll give you a six-pence."

"Patsy said it was a *shillin'*," insisted Dicky,
stamping his feet by way of emphasis.

Moore yielded in shameful defeat.

"There you are, you highwayman, and you tell
Patsy I 'll flake him when I catch him again," he said,
handing out the desired coin.  "You see that door?
Well, get through it as quickly as you can, or I may
do you bodily injury."

Dicky fled wildly across the school-room with Moore
galloping at his heels, then the door shut with a bang,
and the pair were alone again.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOM MOORE GIVES MISTRESS DYKE AN INKLING`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Five*


.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE GIVES MISTRESS DYKE AN INKLING*

.. vspace:: 2

Moore regarded Bessie with a glance of
reproving indignation, which was quite
lost upon the young lady.

"I 'm in a den of thieves, I am," he remarked,
sternly.  "Bessie, I half believe you put those lads up
to that same game.  What share do you get?  Half,
I 'll wager."

"When do you go back to Dublin, Tom?" asked
the girl, waving aside his insinuation with a flirt of her
handkerchief.

"I don't know," responded Moore.  "I should be
there now."

"Should you, Tom?  What is keeping you, then?"

Simple child!  She, of course, had not the slightest
suspicion that she was in any way concerned in the
poet's prolonged tarrying at Dalky.  Innocence is a
truly beautiful thing, and that it is not more popular
is much to be regretted.

"Keeping me?" repeated Moore.  "Nothing but
my heart, mavourneen."

"Indeed?  Who has it in their possession, if it is no
longer in yours?"

"You, Bessie," answered Moore, earnestly.  "And
pray do not return it.  After being in your keeping,
no other woman would satisfy it, and I 'd have no
peace at all.  Ah, alanna, when I left Dublin, weary
and discouraged at my failure to sell my poetry, and
came to this quiet country place in search of rest, it
is little I dreamed I would run across such a girl as
you.  You have put new thoughts in my head, Bessie.
My soul is not the same at all."

Touched by the tenderness of his tone, the girl grew
sober in her turn.

"And you *must* go, Tom?" she asked, regretfully.

"I have my fortune to make, Bessie.  Why, mavourneen,
I have n't a penny of my own."

"And no pennies of anybody else's?"

Moore smiled broadly.

"How could I have?" said he.  "I never went to
school here.  I don't know the system like your pupils."

Bessie laughed and looked so tempting in her mirth
that Moore made another attempt to kiss her, with no
better success than had rewarded his previous efforts.

"Poverty is a common complaint," she observed,
shaking her head at the disappointed youth.

"I had rather be poor than a miser," said Moore,
sitting down on a stool.

"A miser?  Am I one?"

"Yes, with your kisses.  Faith, they are spoiling
to be picked."

"I am the best judge of when and by whom they
shall be picked, good sir," replied Bessie, pensively
nibbling on the end of a brown curl.

"It is hard to be poor, Bessie," sighed Moore,
resting his feet on a rung of the stool, his elbows on his
knees, and his chin in his hand, this being a favorite
attitude of the poet's.

"If you would marry Winnie Farrell you would
have slews of money," suggested Bessie, leaning on
the back of the bench with affected carelessness of
demeanor, but there was a gleam in her eye, hidden
'neath drooping lids and long lashes, that seemed
indicative of no little interest in the forthcoming answer.

Moore looked inquiringly at his fair companion.

"Winnie Farrell is it?" he said, laughing at the
idea.  "Not for me, Bessie.  I have picked out another
lassie."

"But I 'm told you often call at Squire Farrell's,"
persisted the girl, not wholly reassured.

"To be sure I do, Bessie," replied Moore frankly.
"And no wonder.  The Farrells are pleasant people.
Winnie is nice to chat with, and I like her brother.
He is the cleverest lad in the country."

Bessie shook her head doubtfully, and a sunbeam
that, slanting in the window, had comfortably nested
in a coil of her bonny brown hair was rudely thrown
forth to find no better resting-place than the floor, for
the girl moved nearer to Moore as she spoke.

"He is too clever for his own good, I fear," she
said.  "The fewer dealings you have with Terence
the better it will be for you."

Before Moore could reply the door opened, and
Patsy, Micky, and Willy Donohue filed in, each
clutching an arithmetic.

"Look, Tom," said Bessie, pointing out the new-comers.

Moore regarded the little party with wide-open eyes.

"Egad, Bessie," said he, "it's a committee.  What
do you lads want now?"

"Please, sir," said Patsy, acting as spokesman,
"these two boys wants help wid their lessons.  They
each has a sum, sir, and their answer is sixpence
apiece."

"Come here, then," said Moore, sweetly, "and I 'll
hand it to you."

The boys, made confident by past successes, came
forward without hesitation as their victim put both
hands in his pockets.

"It is a long worm that has no turning," remarked
Moore, seizing Patsy by the collar with one hand,
while with the other he picked up the ruler from the
desk.  "This is where Thomas Moore worms--I
mean turns.  There is sixpence where you won't lose
it, my lad."

The dust flew from Patsy's breeches, while from his
mouth proceeded vigorous objections to his present
treatment.

"Now run, you divil, or I will repeat the dose,"
cried Moore, throwing the ruler at Micky's bare shins
as that youthful conspirator sought safety in headlong
flight with Willy before him and Patsy close at his
heels.  A moment later they appeared outside the
window and retaliated with derisive gestures for their
recent defeat until Moore ran towards the door as
though about to give chase, when the lads, squealing
with fright, fled across the fields, disappearing in the
distant trees.

"How do you like teaching?" asked Bessie,
mischievously, as Moore returned.

"Fine," he said.  "Fine, and it's I that pays the
fines, little limbs of Satan."

"Remember, you are speaking of my pupils, Mr. Moore,"
she said threateningly.

"All right," said Moore, "little limbs of Bessie Dyke!"

"Tom!"

"I did n't mean it that way, my dear.  Far be it
from me to make such indelicate remarks intentionally."

"I am not so sure," said Bessie, suspiciously.

"I did n't think what I was saying, Bessie."

"Do you always say what you think?"

"Do you want me to be arrested?" demanded
Moore.  "I conceal my thoughts almost as often as
you do, mavourneen."

"You can omit that 'Mavourneen,'" said Bessie,
refusing to be so soon cajoled into good humor.  "I 'm
not to be blarneyed so easily."

"Oh," said Moore, "it's a terrible thing to be
haunted by a girl's face."

"Is it?" asked Bessie, mollified.

"I should think so," responded Moore.  "I can't
work for thinking of one."

"Is her name 'Laziness'?"

"You 'll get no more information on the subject
from me.  Do you know, Bessie, I have half made
up my mind not to go back to Dublin at all?"

"No?  Where else would you go, Tom?"

"To London," announced Moore, dramatically.
"To London, Bessie, and once there I 'll take Dame
Fortune by the throat and strangle the hussy till she
gives me what I deserve."

"Ah," cried Bessie, "that would be splendid, Tom!"

"I 'd go to-morrow only I dare n't leave you, darlin',
for fear you will be stolen from me in my absence."

"What do you mean?" asked Bessie, looking at
him in surprise.

"As though you did not know, Bessie!" answered
Moore, rising to his feet.  "I mean this Sir Percival
Lovelace, who is seen so often in your company of
late.  Lord Brooking's friend.  Don't I know what he
is after when I see a great gentleman like him, the
odor of Court still in his ruffles, walking and talking
with a pretty bit of a school-teacher like you?"

Bessie flushed a little, but her tone was sad instead
of angry when she answered:

"Tom, have you no faith in me?"

"Well, it is precious little I have in Sir Percival,"
he replied, turning away angrily, "and the less you
have the better it will be for you."

Bessie's eyes twinkled maliciously.  Here was her
chance to pay her lover back for some of the
plaguements he had practised upon her.

"You don't like Sir Percival?" said she, calmly.

"Not I," said Moore.  "I see through his fine
manners easy enough."

"He says I would make a good actress," continued
Bessie, as though flattered by the idea.

Moore bit his lip in anger, but spoke calmly enough
when he answered:

"He did n't say you would make a good wife?"

It was Bessie's turn to lose her temper.

"Oh, Tom," she snapped crossly.  "I shall be angry."

Moore sat down on the bench previously ornamented
by Patsy's youthful form.

"I'd rather you would be angry than sorry," he
said, moodily.

There was a short silence.  For a moment Bessie
hesitated between anger and apology, then her real
regard for Moore triumphed and she decided not to
torment him further.

"Tom," she said softly.

Moore showed no sign of having heard her.

"Tom," she said as sweetly as a deliciously
modulated voice could sound the word.

Still no reply.  She stepped lightly towards him.

"Tom, dear, don't be sulky," she said, laying
one hand upon his sturdy shoulder.  "Why I care
more for your little finger than I ever could for Sir
Percival."

"Will you tell him so?" asked Moore, taking her
hand as he rose.

This was asking entirely too much and Bessie raised
her head very haughtily, indignant that her
condescension in making so confidential a statement had
led to such an extravagant request.

"Indeed, I will not," she declared, defiantly,
returning as she spoke to her chair behind the desk at
the front of the schoolroom.  Moore followed her and
they stood face to face, the desk between them.

"Very well," he said determinedly, "if you won't,
I will."

"If you dare, Thomas Moore," cried Bessie, shaking
one pink forefinger at the poet, admonishingly.  "*If
you dare!*"

"Faith, I dare do anything," he replied, and, seizing
her hand, plunged the lifted finger up to the second
joint in the contents of the inkstand, thus effectually
ending the argument.

"Oh!" cried Bessie, holding her hand, so the jetty
fluid would not fall upon her gown or apron.  "You
horrid, horrid thing, see what you have done!"

Moore laughed heartily at her discomfiture, and in
so doing recovered his usual cheerful spirits.

"Oh, the ink will wash off," he chuckled.  "That
is more than the mark you have left on my heart will
do, for that is indelible."

Bessie stamped her tiny foot in her rage and made
as though she would wipe her hand on Moore's coat,
which caused the triumphant young man to seek
sudden shelter behind the benches.

"I can't wash it off, Tom Moore."

.. _`"I can't wash it off, Tom Moore."`:

.. figure:: images/img-040.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "I can't wash it off, Tom Moore."

   "I can't wash it off, Tom Moore."

"Have you never been taught to perform your
ablutions, Bessie?"

"Stupid!  My other hand is burned and water will
make it smart."

"I wonder if water would make me smart."

"*I 'd* like to," said the girl.

"I 've always tried wine when I thought I needed
intellectual stimulation."

"I should think you would be drinking all the time,"
said Bessie, spitefully.

"Not *all* the time," corrected Moore.  "Part of
it I spend earning the price.  There, now, don't worry,
I 'll scrub your little fist for you if you will let me.
Will you?"

Bessie's anger cooled as rapidly as it had warmed.

"If you will be very gentle, you may."

"Trust me for that," said Moore, going to the
bucket that stood in the corner with a basin covering
it.  "It's empty, Bessie.  There is not as much water
here as would make a foot-bath for a flea."

"You can fetch it from the well," said Bessie.

"Will you come with me?"

"You can go alone, Tom Moore."

"I can, but I don't want to, Bessie."

"You would be almost there now if you had n't
stopped to talk."

"Won't you come, Bessie?"

"I suppose I will have to do it to please you," said
the girl, yielding with a little sigh.

"Won't it please you, too?" said Moore, stopping her.

"But, Tom--"

"Won't it?" he insisted.

"Yes,--yes,--*yes*!" she replied, with increasing
emphasis on each reiteration.

Moore let her pass, and she paused at the door,
looking over her plump shoulder.

"What a child you are, Tom Moore!"

"Child," he repeated.  "Child?  Maybe I am,
Bessie, but when you are called 'Mama' it won't be
by me, though I think I 'll not be far off."

"Oh!" she cried, and slammed the door.





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.. _`TWO GENTLEMEN OF WEALTH AND BREEDING`:

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   *Chapter Six*


.. class:: center medium

   *TWO GENTLEMEN OF WEALTH AND BREEDING*

.. vspace:: 2

It is doubtful if a search prosecuted through the
entire extent of the United Kingdoms over which
the Prince of Wales ruled as Regent would have
brought forth a more debonair or contented individual
than Sir Percival Lovelace, gentleman, libertine,
and chosen comrade of His Royal Highness.  In the
eyes of this gallant, morals were a mark of ancient
barbarism that gentle breeding and a long line of
ancestors should be expected to remove or render
forgotten.  As these views coincided almost exactly with
those cherished by the First Gentleman of Europe, it
is not to be wondered that the Prince found in the
baronet an agreeable and, more than that, an amusing
companion.  But even London may pall upon one and,
not being hampered by the restrictions limiting the
peregrinations of royalty, which were often the cause
for much princely profanity at Carlton House, Sir
Percival sought change and diversion in a jaunt
through Scotland and Wales, finally ending in a tour
of Ireland, where, much to his surprise, he stumbled
upon certain persons destined to furnish him with more
or less food for thought for the next year or two.  His
companion on his travels was none other than Lord
Brooking, nephew of Lord Moira, already known as
one of England's most capable statesmen.  The young
gentleman first mentioned was quite popular in the
Regent's set, but more widely known in the circles from
whence the various arts drew encouragement and
patronage.  But, in spite of his leanings toward the more
cultured pursuits scantily patronized by the profligate
society immediately surrounding the Regent, Lord
Brooking was much more popular with that noble
gentleman than many whose daily and nightly labor was
the effort to curry favor with England's ruler.  Lord
Brooking was no ordinary personage.  There was
small flavor of the roué in his character, though it
cannot be denied that, following the general current
of fashion, he had not hesitated to play his part in the
masque of dissipation offered as entertainment to the
middle and lower classes by the aristocracy whom
they were expected to envy and admire.  But in his
heart he felt only regret for his own participation in
such unworthy extravagance, and, in most instances,
a profound contempt for those who found diversion
and contentment in such existence.  There were two
conspicuous exceptions to his lordship's general
condemnation.  The first was Richard Brinsley Sheridan,
poet, dramatist, and statesman, now in his decadence,
who still sought and furnished entertainment in
society, a garrulous, drunken, and witty old gentleman,
with a heart as young and a thirst as dictatorial as
when Fame first brought him well-merited reward.
The only enemies owned by this lightsome veteran
were those foolish enough to expect eventual settlement
of bills or loans that they were so unwise as to allow
him to add to his long list of personal indebtedness.  It
is almost unnecessary to mention that disappointment
was the subsequent conclusion of all such hopes of
his deluded creditors, for Mr. Sheridan was consistent
in one thing to the last--entire lack of financial
responsibility.

The other exception was Sir Percival, who was so
gay, so generous, so witty that Brooking, blinded by
the glitter of a sparklingly brilliant personality, neither
saw nor felt the hideous moral imperfections that this
winning gentleman hid beneath his splendid exterior.
The several peccadilloes really beyond all extenuation
or apology of which the baronet had been guilty had
never been brought to the attention of his younger
friend and so at the time of which this tale is a
chronicle it would have been difficult to find two closer
cronies than this pair of young noblemen, who were
strolling leisurely in the direction of the schoolhouse.

Sir Percival looked at Brooking quizzically.

"You do not approve, lad," he said with a little
laugh.  "You 're too good a fellow, I am afraid."

"I wish I could be as timid about you," replied
Brooking, pleasantly.

"Can't you, dear boy?  No?  Pray, why not?"

"Do you really wish to know?" asked Brooking,
hesitating a little.

Sir Percival treated himself daintily to a pinch of
snuff and brushed the dust from his coat with an
embroidered handkerchief.

"I think you wish to tell me," he answered, smiling.
"It amounts to the same thing between friends,
doesn't it?"

"I think we may as well understand each other
now," said Brooking, in a serious tone.

"I quite agree with you," remarked Sir Percival,
inwardly wondering what this introduction would
lead to.

"I have been postponing this conversation from day
to day for the last week."

"Indeed?  And why?"

"It is rather a delicate subject."

"I would prefer one that is indelicate, if it is not
inconvenient," suggested Sir Percival.

"For once in your life, Lovelace, be serious."

"Even *that* I will not deny you.  Proceed."

"We have been pals since boyhood.  As little lads
we blacked each other's eyes."

"We did," admitted Sir Percival, laughing gently,
"and bled each other's noses, too."

"We licked the same stick of candy."

"Gad, yes.  My favorite was peppermint.  I remember
it as well as though it were but yesterday."

"We grew up to manhood together," continued
Brooking, half sadly.  "A pretty couple of rakes
we were, too."

"We *are* still, dear lad," corrected Sir Percival.
"Two very pretty little libertines, upon my honor."

"In London, where we were well known as an
unworthy couple, I have no fault to find with you."

"No?" said the baronet in surprise.  "To tell the
truth, that statement causes me some little astonishment."

"We sailed under our true colors there--"

"But," interrupted Sir Percival, "the same flag
is still flying, old man."

"Ah," said his lordship, "while that is true, it
must be remembered that they do not understand its
meaning down here.  I haven't much to brag of in
the way of morals, more is the pity, but no woman
has ever wept of shame from my wrong doing, nor
will a woman ever do so."

Sir Percival gave his companion a smile of interrogation.

"And I?" he asked.

"I am not so sure about you," responded Lord
Brooking, deliberately, "but in London, where you
are known, the folly of a girl in trusting you would
be so inexcusable that indiscretion upon your part
might be readily condoned; but here in this peaceful,
simple old town it is very different."

"Come to the point, Brooking.  You are almost
tiresomely wordy to-day."

"It amounts to this, Percy.  I have done some
things I 'm heartily ashamed of and I intend in the
future to be a better fellow."

"Very commendable, indeed," observed the baronet,
a trifle bored, "Does my approval encourage you?"

"What do you intend to do with Bessie Dyke?"
demanded the younger man, halting as he spoke.

Sir Percival paused and pensively cut down a weed
or two with his walking stick.

"Hum," he said slowly.  "As I thought."

"Do you mean honestly by the girl?"

"Your last words are quite correct," said the
baronet, coolly.  "Buy the girl--I mean to do that,
Brooking."

"You frankly avow that is your object?" began
Brooking, genuinely shocked.

"Tut--tut!" interrupted his companion, good
humoredly.  "She is a pretty creature, is n't she?
Clever, too, in her own innocent, foolish, little way.
For her smiles and bread-and-buttery love--a
welcome change, by the way, from the London brand of
petulant passion--I 'll give her a carriage, horses,
fine dresses, a necklace or two, and lastly my own
charming self for--er--for probably as long a time
as several months."

"And *then*, what will become of her?"

"Really, I don't know," answered Sir Percival.
"Can't imagine, and I shan't bore myself by
wondering.  Perhaps she will marry some clodhopper like
this Tom Moore.  No doubt he would think her doubly
valuable when I have finished with her."

"You are not in earnest," stammered Brooking,
incredulously.

"Quite in earnest, my dear old chap.  Ah, you think
that I will not succeed?  Pshaw, Brooking!  Not here,
perhaps, in this deliciously moral atmosphere, but
elsewhere, yes.  And I intend that she shall be elsewhere.
Brooking, I shall fetch this rural beauty to London."

"She will not go," asserted his lordship.

"No?" returned the baronet.  "Who, think you,
will prevent her?"

"Tom Moore, or I am much mistaken," answered
Brooking, confidently.

"Tut!" said Sir Percival, incredulously.  "You
do not give my tact sufficient consideration.  I 'll
wager the objections Mr. Moore may see fit to make
will prove of no avail in influencing the lady.  In fact,
if I do say it myself, my plans are clever enough to
discount the efforts of a dozen bogtrotters, let alone
one and he a rhymester.  To begin with I have read
and gone in raptures over old Robin Dyke's verses.
Egad, I have pronounced them beautiful, and really
they are not half bad, Brooking.  If they were not
so crammed with anarchy they would sell in London.
The old boy is a socialist, you know.  Yes, i' faith,
he bastes the Prince and Castlereagh soundly," and
this ardent royalist chuckled gleefully at the memory.

"Then you have broached the subject to Mr. Dyke?"
asked Lord Brooking, as they continued their
stroll in the direction of the schoolhouse.  Sir
Percival nodded his head.

"Yes, Brooking, the old scribbler is half persuaded
already.  I have promised him my support and
patronage in London if he comes."

"And the girl?"

"I am tempting Bessie with the promise of a place
at Old Drury, where, as you know, I am not without
influence.  Stab me! with her eyes and rosy red
cheeks she would need neither paint nor powder to
make her an ornament to the boards.  Like most clever
women, she has ambitions of a histrionic nature.  She
will come to London, Brooking, and once there!--once
there--she is mine, dear lad, she is mine."

Brooking's anger and disgust refused to be longer
pent up beneath his calm, almost indifferent, demeanor.

"What a low scoundrel you are!" he ejaculated,
much to Sir Percival's surprise.  The baronet for a
moment regarded him quizzically, as though suspicious
that this uncomplimentary description of his character
was intended as a humorous remark, but seeing
severity in his lordship's face, he smiled pleasantly and
refused to take offence.

"Don't be so serious, old cock," he drawled.
"Earnestness is so tiresome.  Ah, life at its best bores
me.  My friends bore me.  *Even you*, Brooking, bore
me at times.  Toss me, if I know anything that does
not bore me sooner or later."

"Sir Percival," said the younger gentleman, "if I
whispered one half that you have said to me in Tom
Moore's ear he would choke the life out of you and
sink your body in the pond."

"And spoil the drinking water?  Well, such treatment
as you describe would not bore me at all events.
'T would be exciting, even unpleasant, 't is true, but
interesting in the extreme, and anything which is not
tedious is worthy of all consideration."

Brooking laughed, amused in spite of his disapproval.

"You are incorrigible," he said.

"Permit me to explain my view of the matter,"
continued Sir Percival, amiably.

"By all means, Percy."

"This piquant country damsel pleases me rarely.
She is a sweet little thing whose view of life is about
as comprehensive as that of a day-old kitten.  She
shall be educated, Brooking, and I will serve as tutor.
You saw me stoop and pluck a primrose from beside
the road as we walked this way, did you not?  Here
it is in my button-hole.  This girl is a primrose,
Brooking; I 'll wear her till she is faded,--then, like
this wilted blossom, I will toss her aside.  And why?
Because there are other primroses as fair and sweet,
unplucked and unfaded, that grow beside my path
farther on, and I like fresh flowers and new faces."

This very pretty gentleman helped himself to snuff,
and then beamed benevolently upon his companion.
Brooking saw the baronet was in sober earnest in spite
of his pleasant manner and humorous tone.  A new
comprehension of his friend's real character dawned
upon his mind, and for the first time in the long years
of their acquaintance and fellowship he was able to
strip from the libertine the exterior of the winning
and courtly gentleman that had hitherto served to
conceal his imperfections.  In that one moment vanished
the affection and admiration the younger man had felt
for the elder, leaving only the colder and less exacting
friendship existing between men of the same circle
in society, who find much to interest and amuse in
each other's company, but nothing to love or respect.

There was a slight pause before his lordship spoke,
but when he did so there was a new ring to his voice.

"If you harm this little girl, I 'll never take your
hand in mine again.  You hear, Percy?  Do as you
have said, and we are strangers forever."

"And why?" demanded his companion.

"Because I 'll not own friendship with so filthy a
rogue as you will have proved yourself to be."

"Hum!" murmured Sir Percival, thoughtfully.
"Then you will probably constitute yourself her
protector?"

"If necessary, yes."

"And will no doubt seek to balk me by telling her
what a villain you think me, lad?"

"You know better than that," replied Brooking, a
reproachful tone perceptible in his voice.

"So I do," assented the baronet.  "What do you
say to making it a game?  One hundred guineas I win."

The instinct of the gamester, without which no buck
of the times was considered completely a gentleman
in society's interpretation of the word, stirred in the
blood of his lordship.

"Done," said he.

"Good lad," commented Sir Percival.  "My cards
are wealth and fame, London and Drury Lane."

"Mine are the girl's honesty and Tom Moore."

"Tom Moore?" repeated the other, inquiringly.

"Yes," answered Brooking, "for if Bessie Dyke
does go to London with you as her patron, I 'll bring
Tom Moore there and be *his*."

"Just as you like," said Sir Percival.

Reaching the door of the schoolhouse a moment
later, the two bloods knocked vigorously and stood on
the stone threshold, waiting patiently for a response
from the interior.  As this was not forthcoming, after
another moment's delay, Sir Percival opened the door
and led the way into the schoolroom.





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.. _`TOM MOORE OBLIGES A FRIEND AND GETS IN TROUBLE`:

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   *Chapter Seven*


.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE OBLIGES A FRIEND AND GETS IN TROUBLE*

.. vspace:: 2

"Can it be Mistress Bessie has departed for
the day?" said Sir Percival, surveying the
deserted room with no little disappointment.

"I think not," replied his lordship, imitating his
companion's look of investigation.  "As I thought,
Sir Percival!  There is her hat."

As he spoke, Brooking pointed to a dainty affair
composed of some complicated combination of white
straw and blue ribbons, from which peered inquisitively
forth a bunch of pink posies.  This charming
creation hung pendant by the strings from a nail in
the wall behind the desk, making plain that the
school-mistress intended to return.

"True, Brooking," said Sir Percival, and taking it
down he pressed one of the ribbons to his lips.
"Almost as sweet and pretty as its owner.  Egad,
how tuned in harmony with her own charm are the
belongings of a dainty and tasteful woman.  Like the
scientists of the Museum who from a bone construct
a skeleton, so could I from this little hat draw the
portrait of the lady whom it might become."

"You are dangerously near sentimentality," said
Brooking, as though warning the baronet of peril
unperceived.

Sir Percival laughed.

"I sometimes forget that I am no longer a lad of
two-and-twenty, though Heaven knows I lack not
reminders.  Impossible as it seems, it is nevertheless
true that I found a gray hair this morning.  A silver
messenger from approaching Age.  I plucked the
rascally thing out and breathed more freely when I was
rid of it."

A knock sounded on the door by which the pair
had entered, and Sir Percival, peeking slyly through
a convenient window, gave an exclamation of dismay.

"Pluck me, Brooking, if it is not old Robin Dyke
himself.  Devil take the old bore!"

Brooking pointed to the other exit.

"Perhaps we can escape this way."

Sir Percival, followed by his lordship, tiptoed across
the room, but before they reached the other doorway,
Mr. Dyke, weary of waiting, entered briskly, and their
plan of evasion was abandoned as hastily as it had
been adopted.

"Why, if it is not Mr. Dyke," cried Sir Percival,
cheerily, quite as though he were overjoyed at the
meeting.  "Good-day to you, sir.  I hope it finds you
sound in health."

Dyke flushed with pleasure at the heartiness of the
great gentleman's greeting.  He was a pleasant-faced
old man, simple and good-hearted, too prone to trust
in the honor of others, but erring only by giving them
credit for benevolence and honesty equal to his own.
He was quite a portly old person, with a face strongly
lined in spite of its placid expression.  His hair, worn
rather long as became a poet, was a wavy, shimmery
gray, and he walked with a rambling sort of gait that
suggested vaguely a compromise between a stride and
a toddle.  Sir Percival's quick eye caught sight of a
suggestive roll of manuscript sticking out of the
new-comer's pocket.

"Ah!" exclaimed the baronet, tapping the paper
with his cane.  "I see a paper peeking from your
coat, Mr. Dyke.  Another poem, I 'll be bound.
Come now, sir, out with it.  I swear, we *will* hear it,
eh, Brooking?"

"I 'm *afraid* we will," murmured his lordship
beneath his breath, but he bowed in pleasant assent in
reply to the old gentleman's inquiring look.

"What?" continued Sir Percival.  "Too modest,
eh?  Then I will read it myself," and, with a gesture
gracefully apologetic for the liberty, he drew the roll
from Dyke's pocket.

"Really, Sir Percival," stammered the old man, in
pleased embarrassment.  "My poor effort--"

"Your *poor* effort," repeated Sir Percival, scanning
the first page through his eyeglass, as he spoke.  "If
this be his poor effort, Brooking, what would his
best be?"

"God knows!" murmured Brooking to himself,
"I hate to think of it."

Sir Percival's quick ear caught his lordship's
muttered remark, so, as the flustered poet crossed to the
window in hope of obtaining a glimpse of the absent
schoolmistress, the baronet turned to Brooking with
a laugh.

"Perhaps God knows," he whispered, "or perhaps
it is better known in the *other* place.  Look at it,
Brooking."

"Must I?" replied the younger man, reluctantly.

"Of course you must," asserted Sir Percival.  Then
more loudly he continued:

"Genius in every line, and more between them.
My dear Dyke, we must have you in England."

"You think so, Sir Percival?" said the old
gentleman, greatly flattered.

"I am sure of it," answered the other as though
convinced, returning the poem to its author.  "But
once you are there, no seditious political versifying
like this.  Why, sir, the Prince would foam at the
mouth if he saw this.  Love lyrics, sir, for the ladies.
That must be your game, dear man."

Mr. Dyke hardly knew which to regard as the
greater compliment, the implication that he had but
to exert himself to write poetry that would be
pleasing to the fair sex of London, or the assertion that
the satire of his latest production was sufficient to
cause annoyance even to Royalty itself.  Still not quite
decided in regard to the matter, he blew his nose
resoundingly and modestly replied:

"I would restrain my opinions, since I cannot
change them."

Sir Percival winked wickedly at Brooking to draw
the latter's attention to his next remark.

"Have you thought over my proposal, Mr. Dyke?"

"I have given it much deliberation," answered that
worthy, in a tone that but ill concealed the delight
occasioned him by the mere suggestion of such an idea.

"Well, Mr. Dyke?"

"I feel most favorably inclined, I must confess,"
replied the old gentleman.

"Ah!" said Sir Percival, in an undertone to Lord
Brooking, "d' ye hear that, lad?  He must confess."

"I wish you had to, Percy.  It would save me trouble."

"Then it is decided?" said Sir Percival, looking
triumphantly at his friend.

Dyke hesitated.

"No," he said, "not exactly decided.  It now rests
with my daughter.  If she agrees with me, I will be
pleased to do as you have suggested."

"Then Bessie shall say 'Yes,'" responded the baronet.

Chancing to look out the window at this moment,
Sir Percival caught a glimpse of a familiar figure
passing on a path running near the schoolhouse.

"What, what?" he laughed.  "There goes young
Farrell.  Who is the petticoat in tow?"

"That is his sister Winnie," replied Mr. Dyke,
peering through his glasses.  "A nice girl, Sir
Percival, with a proper admiration for literature."

"Too dumpy, by far," responded that gentleman,
surveying the lady with anything but approval.  "By
the way, I 've something to say to Terence.  Brooking,
while I run after them, you may tell Mr. Dyke
your opinion of his poetry."

And hastening to the door, the baronet gave chase
to the couple, already at quite a distance.

At this moment Farrell chanced to look around and,
beholding the approaching macaroni, halted his
companion and stood waiting, his sister feeling quite giddy
with the thought of meeting so great a beau as Sir
Percival.

"I 've a word or two to say that may interest you,
Terence, if you can spare me a moment," began the
baronet.

"My time is quite at your disposal, Sir Percival,"
replied Farrell.  "Permit me to present you to my
sister."

Sir Percival bowed with graceful formality.

"La, Mistress Farrell," he sighed, prettily, "your
father is indeed fortunate.  With such a son and such
a daughter his old age should be crowned with
happiness and content."

"Father finds much to criticise," said the girl.  "I
fear he takes no such flattering view of his children
as you insinuate he should."

"Criticise?" repeated Sir Percival in a tone of
astonishment.  "What can he wish for?"

"Much, if one may judge from his complaints,"
answered Winnie, not a little puffed up by the baronet's
condescension and approval.  "I 'll not keep you from
your business with my prattle, sir.  Terence, I will go
on to Mrs. McCloud's and stop for you at the
school-house on my way back."

"You are most amiable, Mistress Farrell," said Sir
Percival, gratefully.

The girl courtesied in what she hoped was a good
imitation of the London manner, and continued on her
way, leaving the two gentlemen to stroll toward the
schoolhouse.

"Well, Sir Percival," said Farrell knowingly, "what
is afoot?"

As he spoke he gave the baronet a searching look,
which drew forth a pleasant smile by way of answer.

"You never lose time in getting to the point."

"Except when it's a sword," replied Farrell.  "Then
I can be devilish slow."

Sir Percival's face wore a pensive look as he
regarded his friend.

"For a country squire you present a wonderfully
fashionable appearance," he remarked, his eye travelling
approvingly from the bell-crowned beaver on the
youth's well-shaped head to the carefully tied stock
and thence to the immaculately polished boots which
ornamented feet both small and neatly turned.  "Your
costume would not be out of place on Pall Mall,
Terence."

With characteristic cunning the courtier had detected
young Farrell's weak point.  The youthful Irishman's
fondest wish was that he might some day be acknowledged
as a beau in no less a place than London itself;
a city which dictated fashion to the rest of the
kingdom, drawing its own inspiration from the finicky
fancy of George Brummell, now at the height of his
power as dictator of society.

Farrell flushed with pleasure at Sir Percival's
commendation.

"I' faith," he answered, "even in Ireland we are not
entirely lacking in taste."

"No, not entirely," observed the baronet.  "And
the cards, Terence?  Does Fortune smile upon you
these days?"

"Not so frequently as my pocket demands, sir.  To
tell the truth, I 've played in most villainous luck this
last week."

"Then possibly you would regard the opportunity
to earn one hundred pounds with favoring eye?"

"Would I?  Try me, Sir Percival," answered
Farrell eagerly.

"Very well, Terence," replied the baronet, "but
whether you accept or refuse my proposition you bind
yourself as an honorable man to repeat to no one what
I shall suggest?"

"Of course," answered Farrell.  "You may confide
in me, Sir Percival."

"I have work for that infernally clever brain of
yours.  One hundred pounds if you will devise a
scheme that parts Bessie Dyke from this Tom Moore
who annoys me."

It cannot be said that Farrell was astonished at the
words of Sir Percival.  Nevertheless, that such a great
and clever man should consider it advisable to obtain
assistance in outwitting so comparatively rustic an
individual as Tom Moore, was, in the youth's eyes,
rather a damaging admission of weakness.  At least
so he regarded it, for the moment not realizing that
to a gentleman of large fortune it was far more
satisfactory to busy another's brain than to greatly exert
his own, even though the result of the latter might be
more pleasing in the end.

"One hundred pounds," repeated Sir Percival,
languidly.

"But Tom Moore is my friend."

"Ah!" said the baronet, "in that case one hundred
and *one* pounds."

Farrell laughed a little.

"Very well, Sir Percival," said he, "I will
undertake to earn the sum you mention.  I must admit the
airs and graces with which Moore sees fit to conduct
himself are extremely offensive to me.  His manner
is one of extreme condescension, and more than once
I have felt myself to be upon the verge of resenting it."

"Then," said the baronet, "it is agreed?"

Farrell nodded pleasantly.

"How will you do it?"

"Easily, Sir Percival.  You leave the affair to me
and I 'll fix it so Bessie Dyke will never look at Tom
Moore again."

"If you succeed, I 'll make it one hundred and fifty."

"Ah," said Farrell, lifting the latch of the school-house
door, "I like dealing with you, Sir Percival."

At almost the same moment Bessie Dyke entered at
the opposite side.  Sir Percival bowed in his most
courtly manner.

"Here is the missing damsel at last," he said.

Moore pushed the half-closed door open and stepped
in, bucket in hand.

"There is more to follow," he announced, setting
his burden in an out-of-the-way corner as he spoke.

"More?" echoed Sir Percival, questioningly.

"Yes, Tom Moore."

"A villainous pun, upon my honor."

"A pun upon *your* honor might well be such," said
Moore, coming forward.

Sir Percival allowed an expression of surprise to
pass over his handsome face.

"Egad," he said, gently, as though in veiled
wonderment.  "Wit, and from such a source."

"A sauce of wit makes game more savory," returned
Moore, not at all irritated at the baronet's accent of
superiority.  "And I know your game," he added in
an undertone.

"Indeed?"

"In deed and in thought, too," answered Moore,
cheerfully.  "You will not succeed, my good sir."

"Will you prevent me, Mr. Moore?"

"I fancy so, Sir Percival."

The baronet raised his voice, so that the conversation,
hitherto inaudible to the others, who were clustered
at the side of the room, could be easily heard.
He did this intending to overwhelm this youth, whom
he despised both as a rustic and as an Irishman, with
the apt and stinging wit that had made him famous
even in London drawing-rooms accustomed to the
sparkling sallies and epigrams of Sheridan and Rogers.
He regarded the conversational defeat of Moore as an
easy task, and proceeded to attempt it with a confidence
born of many hard-fought victories won in the brilliantly
flippant circle surrounding the Prince of Wales,
a society that could only be described as
pyrotechnically witty.

"I understand that you write poetry, Mr. Moore."

"But you would not understand the poetry I write."

"But I might buy some of it.  I am not over
particular as to merit, you see."

"I am very particular, you see, to whom I sell."

"Why?" demanded Sir Percival, taking snuff with
a graceful flourish.

"Because I write for the masses and classes, not for
the asses," replied Moore, as pleasantly as though
paying a delicate compliment to the nobleman.

Sir Percival recognized that the first point had
been scored by his hitherto despised rival, and rallied
gamely, as became a gentleman of blood and breeding.

"That last accounts for your unpopularity with
your fellow-countrymen," he suggested.

"Oh, they are not the asses I alluded to, Sir
Percival."

"Perhaps you intended that for me, then?"

"Does a fellow feeling make you wondrous kind?"
asked Moore, innocently.

"Hum.  Rather clever, Moore," said Sir Percival,
planning a particularly nasty retort, which he was
prevented from delivering by Bessie's approach.

"How is my little schoolmistress to-day?" he said,
winningly, to the girl.

Moore, loath to relinquish his victory, decided to
continue the battle of wits, and thus brought about
his undoing in the moment of his triumph.

"Your little schoolmistress?" he repeated.  "Have
you become a scholar, Sir Percival?"

"To be taught by Mistress Dyke, I would become
anything."

"Except honest," suggested Moore.

"Sir!" exclaimed his rival, angrily.

"Why, sir, if you are honest already, there is surely
no need of change."

"He had you there, Percy," said Lord Brooking,
joining the group.

"On the contrary, Brooking, Mistress Dyke has me
*here*," replied Sir Percival, his anger cooled.

"We all have our troubles," observed Moore, plaintively,
"even Mistress Dyke."

This was the baronet's opportunity, and he made
good use of it.

"Egad," he drawled, "have you been reading your
own poetry, Mr. Moore?"

Bessie laughed merrily as Moore tasted the bitterness
of defeat and allowed himself to be led away to
the organ by Lord Brooking.

"A song, Mr. Moore.  I 've heard such reports of
your singing that I am more than eager to listen to
one of your ballads.  Mr. Dyke and our friend Farrell
join me in the request."

"But, my lord," objected Moore, casting an
inquiring glance towards where Sir Percival was talking
glibly to the little schoolmistress, "I--er--really
I 'm not in voice to-day."

"Nonsense!" said his lordship.  "We will not be
denied, Mr. Moore."

"Then since I 'm not Saint Peter, I 'll have to yield.
What shall it be?"

A short discussion followed at the organ, and when
this had been settled by Dyke and Farrell choosing
"The Shamrock," Moore, calmly paying no attention
to such a detail as that, proceeded to sing his latest
poem, written only that morning in honor of Sir
Percival.

Nothing could have been more to the point, for at
this very moment the baronet was urging the girl to
ratify her parent's decision in regard to the proposed
move to London, painting for her in vivid words what
a Successful career at Drury Lane Theatre would
mean, at the same time dwelling upon her father's
opportunity for advancement as poet and scholar.

   |     "Oh! weep for the hour,
   |     When to Eveleen's bower
   |   The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;
   |     The moon hid her light
   |     From the heavens that night,
   |   And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.
   |
   |     "The clouds passed soon
   |     From the chaste cold moon,
   |   And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame;
   |     But none will see the day
   |     When the clouds shall pass away,
   |   Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.
   |
   |     "The white snow lay
   |     On the narrow pathway
   |   When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor;
   |     And many a deep print
   |     On the white snow's tint
   |   Showed the track of his footsteps to Eveleen's door.
   |
   |     "The next sun's ray
   |     Soon melted away
   |   Every trace on the path where the false Lord came;
   |     But there's a light above
   |     Which alone can remove
   |   That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame."
   |

Moore's voice died away melodiously in the last
plaintive note.

"A very pretty song, Mr. Moore.  It tells a
beautiful story and points a splendid moral," said Lord
Brooking.

"Yes, my lord," answered Moore, glancing toward
Bessie.  "It shows the folly of a poor girl in believing
aught told her by a nobleman.  It is as true nowadays
as it was then."

"Oh, Tom," said the girl, tremulously.  "It is
beautiful.  Is it not, Sir Percival?"

"Oh, very, very," replied the baronet.  "Extremely
so.  I congratulate you, Mr. Moore."

"Have you reason to do so, Sir Percival?" asked
Moore.

His question was answered immediately, for Bessie
turned toward the gentleman addressed.

"I thank you, Sir Percival," she said, "but I fear
London is not for such as father and me."

As Moore gave a sigh of relief and turned away,
satisfied that he had foiled the baronet in his attempt
to entice Bessie from Ireland, Farrell touched him on
the arm and led him to one side.

"Will you meet me here, Tom, in half an hour?" he
asked.

"Is it important, Terry?" demanded Moore, who intended
to devote the rest of the afternoon to courting
Bessie.

"It may mean money enough to start you in London."

"The devil!" exclaimed the poet.  "I 'll meet you
then, for to London I am bound to go, sooner or
later."

At this moment Lord Brooking, who had been
chatting in a corner with Mr. Dyke, came forward,
followed by the old gentleman.

"Sir Percival," said his lordship, a malicious twinkle
in his eye, "Mr. Dyke has invited us to try a little
wine of his own manufacture.  You will be charmed,
I know."

"A rare variety of grape, Sir Percival," said
Mr. Dyke, delightedly.  "In fact, I venture to assert that
you have never tasted such a vintage."

"Very likely not, Mr. Dyke," replied Sir Percival,
quite convinced that such was the case, and not at all
sure that he might not regard himself as favored by
fortune on that account.

"You will honor me?" asked Mr. Dyke, eagerly.

Sir Percival saw he could not refuse without wounding
the pride of his would-be host, and therefore
yielded politely.

"I shall be delighted, I am sure," he answered.
Then, lowering his voice, he murmured in Brooking's
ear:

"I owe you one, my lord."

Brooking laughed and took the baronet's arm.

"Come, then," said he, pointing to the door with his
walking-stick.

"Perhaps Mr. Dyke will read us another poem,"
said Sir Percival, hopefully.

"Heaven forbid!" whispered his lordship.

"Could anything be more appropriate?" continued
the baronet.  "We drink the wine pressed from our
friend's own grapes, while we listen to the poetry his
muse has sipped from the fountain of the gods upon
Parnassus."

"You should write poetry, Sir Percival," said Mr. Dyke,
much flattered.

"I 'll leave that to Mr. Moore," answered the baronet,
advancing towards Bessie.

"There are several other things I wish you would
leave to me," said the poet.

"No doubt," replied Sir Percival.  "My arm,
Mistress Dyke?"

"I must decline that honor," said Bessie.  "My
duties require me to remain here for a while
longer."

"I am sorry for that, Mistress Dyke.  You will join
us, Mr. Moore?"

"I never drink, Sir Percival," replied Moore,
endeavoring to look virtuous without much success.

"Indeed?" said the baronet.  "You had better
begin, sir.  Then perhaps you would write less
poetry."

Moore failed to find a suitable retort, and therefore
mounted the little platform on which stood the blackboard,
as Mr. Dyke, Lord Brooking, and Farrell moved
towards the door.

"Mistress Dyke," said Sir Percival, "if you can
spare a thought this afternoon, perhaps you will
oblige me by reconsidering your decision in regard to
London?"

"I have quite made up my mind, thank you,"
answered Bessie, dusting off her desk with her apron.
"Simple country folk would be out of place in so
great a city."

"Brains and beauty are made welcome everywhere,"
answered the baronet.  "Moreover, it is a woman's
privilege to change her mind."

"Will you be long, my daughter?" asked Mr. Dyke,
turning at the door.

"Not very long, father," she answered, demurely.
"The--the arithmetic is very difficult for to-morrow,
and I must be prepared for the lesson."

Moore helped himself to a piece of chalk, and began
figuring on the blackboard.

"What are you doing?" asked Sir Percival, eying
the poet through his glass.

"I am preparing the arithmetic," replied Moore,
marking a huge six upon the board.  Then turning
he counted those present.  "Six," said he.
"One--two--three--four."

As he spoke he checked off all but Bessie and himself
upon his fingers.

"Four from six," he continued, doing the subtraction
with the chalk, "leaves two, Bessie and me.  Good
afternoon, gentlemen."

Every one laughed but Sir Percival, who contented
himself with a faint smile.

"Quite so," said he, "quite a joke.  My time for
laughing will come later."

"The later the better," said Moore.  "He who
laughs last laughs best.  Delay it as long as you can,
and you will enjoy it the more."

"No doubt, Mr. Moore.  Good afternoon to you,
Mistress Dyke.  Sir, I 'm your most obedient."

"Good-day, Sir Percival," said Bessie, dropping a
courtesy as the baronet turned again at the door.
Then, as his tall figure vanished from the threshold,
she faced her lover with a little sigh of relief.

"Tom," she said reprovingly, "you must not speak
as you do to Sir Percival.  For a little while I feared
you would have a real quarrel."

"Perhaps that would be the easiest way out of it,
after all," said Moore, belligerently.  "I 'd ask nothing
better than to get a chance at him."

"I can't have you fighting with every stranger that
comes to Ireland, Tom," said Bessie, assuming that
slight air of proprietorship that is so soothing to an
eager lover, implying as it does a regard not only of
the present moment, but apparently keeping in sight
possibilities of the future.  Moore felt this subtle
influence and yielded to it gradually.

"Thanks be to St. Patrick, they are gone at last,"
said he in a sulky tone.  "Now you can do your
arithmetic."

"Tom, you are cross," said Bessie, reproachfully.
"This is what I get for staying here to please
you."

"What was Sir Percival saying to you so confidentially
just now?"

"He was coaxing me to go to London."

"I knew it," cried Moore, angrily.  "I 'll do that
gay lad an injury if he keeps on."

"Hush, Tom," said Bessie, reprovingly.

"I 'll do something desperate to him," continued
Moore, striding up and down the room in his rage.

"Tom," said the girl, in her most persuasive tone.
"Tom!"

"I 'll punish him terribly if he don't let you alone."

Bessie seized him by the arm and compelled him to
halt.

"Tom dear," she asked, "what will you do?"

"I--I--I 'll dedicate a volume of my poems to
him, if he don't look out," declared Moore, yielding
to the girl's calming influence.

"But I am not going to London," laughed Bessie,
"so you 'll let him off this time, won't you, Tom?"

"You promise you will not go, Bessie?" asked
Moore, earnestly, taking her hands in his.

"I promise that while you are as true and kind as
you have been to-day, I 'll not even think of it again,"'
she answered, soberly.

"True?" repeated Moore, tenderly.  "Why, every
thought of mine has been faithful since first I met you.
Kind?  The devil himself could n't be anything but
sweet to you, I 'm sure."

Bessie drew her hands away, satisfied that she had
made sure of the public peace continuing unfractured
so far as her lover was concerned.

"Now," she said, in pretty imitation of his previous
cross speech, "now you can do your arithmetic."

"Can I?" answered Moore, laughing.  "Then the
first sum will be an addition.  One added to two.  One
kiss to two lips."

"And the second?" asked Bessie, at a safe distance.

"Subtraction.  Two kisses from two lips."

"That would leave nothing, Tom."

"Nothing but a taste of heaven," replied he,
hopefully approaching her.

"A kiss is not right," objected Bessie, in her most
moral accents.

"Then give me one that is left," urged Moore.  "I
see you have plenty, Bessie."

She shook her head.

"Time enough for that when you have been to
London.  You might see some girl there whom you
would much prefer, and I 'll not run the risk till I know
that it is n't so," she answered wisely.

"Ah, Bessie, Bessie darling, why will you doubt
me so?  Oh, I love you, dearest, I love you."

"Sometimes," she answered in a softer tone, "sometimes
I almost believe you mean what you say.  Ah,
Tom, if I could only be sure!"

An eager light came into Moore's fine eyes.

"What can I do to make you sure?" he whispered,
his voice vibrant with love and tenderness.

"I will tell you, Tom.  Wait till time has proved
your heart beyond all doubting.  We are both young,
and the world is all before us.  For you, dearest Tom,
it holds fame and fortune--"

"Ah, Bessie," he interrupted, "do you think so?"

"There will come a day," she answered, proudly,
"when in all Ireland there will be no name so boasted
of, so loved and reverenced, as Thomas Moore."

"And yet if this be true, I 'd throw it all away
gladly, if by so doing, I 'd be sure of you," Moore
answered, sincerity written on his face.  "Bessie my
darlin', why won't you believe in me?  Won't you love
me, Bessie?  Can't you love me, Bessie, dear?"

For a moment the girl hesitated.  In her heart she
yielded, but before the words of surrender left her lips
she rallied and remained outwardly true to her resolve.
Had Moore taken her in his arms and kissed her,
reading aright the soft glowing eyes bent on him with
so loving a glance, she would have faltered in her
determination, but he did not realize that the time had
that second come when she would have sacrificed to
her love for him her preconceived and carefully
cherished idea of what was right and best for them both,
and so he failed to take advantage of the one
opportunity to have his own way that capricious fortune
granted him.  Had he been wiser, his whole future
life might have been changed.  London might never
have known the sweetest poet ever brought forth by
Ireland and the afterwards First Nightingale of
Fashion's drawing-room might have lived and died
an obscure rhymer in some country town.

Like a knowing lass, Bessie, finding herself on the
verge of a tear, sought safety in the relaxing influence
of a laugh, and extending an ink-besmeared finger in
reproach, demanded if Moore intended to make good
his promise to remove the stain.

Moore chuckled and the tenseness of the situation
was removed.

"Faith," said he, abandoning his attempt to
persuade Bessie from her way of thinking, "I 'll wash
your hands for you, for fear, if I don't, you 'll wash
your hands of me."

Turning on his heel, Moore crossed to the corner
where he had left his bucket of water, and, picking it
up, placed it beside the basin that lay on the bench.

"Come here, Bessie, and I 'll scrub you clean as a
whistle," he announced cheerfully.

Bessie held her hand over the basin obediently, and
Moore poured over it the water from the pail.

"Oh--h!" cried the schoolmistress.

"What ails you, Bessie?"

"My, but that water is cold."

"True for you," replied Moore, rubbing her hand
with a cake of soap he found in the basin, "but you
have so often thrown cold water on my heart it is only
fair I should pour some on your hand."

"Oh, I see, Mr. Moore," replied Bessie, "and now
that you have given me so much soft soap, you think
you will try hard soap for a change."

Moore lathered her fingers vigorously.

"You have guessed my secret.  It is a lovely little
hand you have, Bessie, but your nails are too long,
darlin'."

"If you behave yourself, they won't bother you,
Tom."

"Each finger a lily with a rosebud for a tip,"
poetized Moore, presuming to kiss the bouquet.  Bessie
snapped her finger, sending a shower of tiny drops
in the youth's face.

"A water lily?" asked she.

"Oh!" cried Moore.  "Murder!  Murder!  You
have put the soap in my eye," and he forthwith
proceeded to dance around in a manner more vigorous
than graceful.

Bessie was conscience-stricken at the result of her
joke.

"What a shame, Tom.  I am so sorry."

"Oh--h!" exclaimed Moore, sitting down on the
bench with his face in his handkerchief.  "Help!
Thieves!"

"Oh, Tom," said Bessie, full of regret, "does it
hurt you dreadfully?"

"It does that."

"Oh, I am so sorry."

"Thank you kindly."

Kneeling down beside Moore, Bessie drew aside the
handkerchief and kissed him soundly on the eye thus
brought into view.

"Who did that?" demanded Moore, as though in
doubt.

"I did," answered Bessie, boldly.  "Is it better?"

"Yes," replied Moore, "but the other eye is full of
soap.  Cure that, too, like a darlin', Bessie."

"There," said the girl, decisively.  "I don't
believe it hurt you at all.  You have made a fool
of me."

Feeling himself detected, Moore abandoned his
pretence of suffering.

"Well," he said, with a broad smile, "I am a kiss
to the good at all events.  Many thanks, Bessie."

"Tom, I am very angry with you."

"I don't believe it, Bessie.  You ought to be
complimented to see how hard I am willing to work for a
kiss."

"I 'll not believe you again."

"That is nothing new, Bessie, darlin'.  You are a
most unbelieving young female at best."

"There is some one at the door, Tom," said Bessie,
her quick ear hearing a foot on the doorstep.

"Come in," said Moore, in answer to Farrell's
knock, and that young gentleman entered, carrying
himself in so evident an imitation of Sir Percival
Lovelace that the poet roared outright.

"What is the joke?" asked Farrell, not at all
pleased at Moore's laughter.

"You are, Terry," replied the other.  "Faith, it is
too bad entirely that we have n't a glass so you could
see.  My, but you are a macaroni, Terence.  Is
Lovelace pleased with his pupil?"

And, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket in
emulation of Farrell's manipulation of his, Moore
proceeded to swagger up and down the schoolhouse
in so accurate an imitation of Farrell's recently
adopted manner of comporting himself that even Bessie
laughed.

Farrell grew red with anger, but, deciding this was
not the time to resent Moore's fun, apparently took
the performance in good part.

"You are in fine spirits, Tom," he observed, laying
his hat on a convenient stool.

"Never better," replied Moore, jovially.  "Can I
do anything for you, Terry, my boy?"

"Have you forgotten our engagement?"

"Faith, I had that, Terence."

Then, turning to Bessie, Moore continued:

"You see, alanna, how you drive everything but
yourself out of my head?"

"That is as it may be," remarked Bessie, sagely,
taking her hat from the nail in the wall supporting it.
"I must be going.  There is my arithmetic, Tom.
You can carry it for me."

Moore took the book she held out to him.

"I 'll not be long," he said, as though in excuse.
"I promised to have a bit of a confab with Terry.
When that is over with, I 'll join you at your house."

Bessie nodded pleasantly and walked over to the door.

"Well," she said, looking out as she opened it,
"I shan't lack for an escort.  There is Sir Percival
now."

"Wait a minute," said Moore, hastening towards her,
but she bid him good-bye, laughingly, and shut the
door behind her as she stepped out.

Moore, ill pleased, returned to Farrell.

"Did you hear that?" he demanded.

Farrell admitted that he had, and flicked an
imaginary speck of dirt from his ruffle.

"You have her arithmetic to comfort you," he suggested.

"It's little comfort I ever get out of such books,"
said Moore, laying the volume down on Bessie's desk.
"Now tell me what ails you, Terence?"

"If I do," said Farrell, cautiously, "you 'll never
repeat it to a soul?"

"Shall I cross my heart, lad?"

Farrell shook his head gravely.

"I'll leave that for Mistress Dyke to attend to,"
he answered.

"Troth," said Moore, smiling, "she made it all
criss-cross long ago.  But go on, Terry.  Unbosom
yourself."

"It's this, Tom.  My sister Winnie is secretly
engaged to Captain Arbuckle of the Ninth Dragoons."

"Engaged to an Englishman!" ejaculated Moore,
as though horrified.  "And secretly.  That adds insult
to injury."

"Aye, secretly," repeated Farrell, dolefully.

"*That's* how you came to know, doubtless,"
remarked Moore.  "Oh, it is awful, Terence, but cheer
up, lad.  *You* won't have to be Arbuckle's wife.  Let
that comfort you, Terry."

"That is not all, Tom.  I am poorer than you are,
and I have a debt of honor of fifty pounds due to-morrow."

"Whew!" ejaculated Moore, in astonishment.
"Well, whose fault is that?"

"Yours, Tom," replied Farrell, boldly.

"Mine?  How the devil can that be?" asked Moore,
leaning against the desk for comfort and support.

"It is very simple.  I thought you were sweet on
Winnie."

"Me?  Never!" cried Moore.  "Not for a fraction
of a minute.  Not that Winnie is n't a dear girl, for
none knows that she is such better than I, but we
would never do for a couple."

"Unfortunately I thought otherwise," responded
Farrell.  "That is the trouble."

"You interest me very much," said the poet, helping
himself to a seat on the desk.  "Go on with your tale
of woe."

"I was so sure of it," continued Farrell, "that I
bet Lieutenant Cholmondely you would propose to
her before the first of the month."

"A nice performance," commented Moore, swinging
his feet.  "Then what?"

"Arbuckle heard me, and, like a sneak, went off
quietly and asked Winnie the next day."

"And was accepted?  Serves him right, Terry."

"But the bet stands," persisted Farrell, sorrowfully.
"And to-morrow is the first of the month.  I have n't
a penny to pay Cholmondely."

"It is too bad, Terry," replied Moore, sympathetically,
"but you should never have made such a bet.
It shows lack of respect for Winnie.  At least some
people would think so, though I am sure you never
meant to convey any such impression."

"I thought you might help me," said Farrell,
disconsolately.  "Can't you, Tom?"

"I have n't quarter the money, Terry."

"But you are wanting to go to London, are n't you?
Remember you are n't supposed to know Winnie is
promised."

"True."

"Then, why can't you ask her and be refused?
Cholmondely would pay me the money, and there
would be fifty pounds to divide between us, for I 'll
give you half if you help me out of the scrape."

Moore frowned.

"That would n't be honest, Terry," he said severely.

"Was it fair for Arbuckle to propose before the first,
knowing, as he did, that I had till then to win?"
demanded Farrell, in an injured tone.

"No," said Moore, "it was n't, though, of course,
if he had waited a thousand years, I would n't have
proposed in sober earnest."

"But you'll do it in fun?"

"She is already engaged?"

"She is crazy over the captain," said Farrell,
enthusiastically.

"Then she would be sure to refuse me."

"She would, and, Tom, you 'll have saved my
honor," said Farrell, pleadingly.

"It is a shame for Cholmondely to get your money
and Arbuckle your sister.  I 'll do it to oblige you,
Terry," said Moore, "but I want none of your
winnings.  What I do is to help you out of a bad scrape,
for friendship's sake, my lad."

"How can I thank you, Tom?" said Farrell,
inwardly exultant, but to all appearance almost
overcome at his friend's willingness to come to the rescue.

"By being more careful in the future about your
betting," said Moore, kindly.  As he spoke he drew
nearer the window and caught a glimpse of Mistress
Farrell approaching.

"By the powers, here comes Winnie now," he exclaimed.

"True for you, Tom, and headed this way."

"Now you get out of here, Terry, and we will have
my rejection over with at once.  I 'll be through in
a jiffy."

"Don't be too precipitate or she will suspect
something," advised Farrell.

"Leave it to me," said Moore.  "You stand just
outside the door there and you can listen to it all.
Oh, it will be fine, Terry."

"Say, 'Will you have me?' Tom," said Terence,
going to the door opposite to the one which his sister
was now approaching.

"Don't try to teach me," said Moore.  "It's myself
that's to do this proposing, and I need no instruction.
All you have to do is to listen.  Don't go away
now."

"Not I," said Terence.  "I won't be easy till it's
over," and, laughing under his breath, he shut the
door.

Truly fortune favored him this day, for coming
up the hill was Bessie, not more than a moment or
two behind Winnie Farrell, who by this time had
entered the school.

"Good-day, to you, Winnie," said Moore, politely.
"Sure, it is blooming you are this afternoon.  Like
a whole bouquet of blossoms, let alone a single
flower."

Winnie looked pleased at the compliment and smiled
upon its bestower.

"How gallant you are to-day," she said in a flattered
tone.

"Oh, I *said* it this day, but I *think* it all the week,"
replied Moore, placing a stool for the lady.

"Where is Terence?" she asked, seating herself.
"He promised to wait for me here."

"I expect him back in a little while," replied Moore,
casting a furtive glance in the direction of the door
behind which he believed his friend to be concealed.
"You can wait for him, Winnie.  I have n't seen
much of you lately."

"You know the road that leads to Farrell's, Tom,"
said the girl with a laugh.  She was a plump little
morsel with a soft voice, and a saucy tip-tilted nose;
a pleasant, generous-hearted little soul, decidedly good
to look upon.

"I have not forgotten the road," said Moore, meaningly.

"Then, why don't you come to see me?"

"For fear that I would n't be as welcome as Captain
Arbuckle," said Moore, trying to look knowing.

Winnie looked surprised.

"Captain Arbuckle?" she said, wonderingly.  "What
do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, Winnie."

"No, I don't, Tom."

"You do, too, you artless creature," said Moore,
laughing.

"What *are* you driving at, Tom?" asked Winnie,
genuinely puzzled.

"At you, Winnie, dear," replied Moore, and then,
conscious that his courage was rapidly leaving him,
he proceeded desperately with his performance.

"Winnie Farrell, I love you."

"What?" cried the girl, rising from the stool.

"I love you, Winnie.  Say you won't marry me,"
said Moore, relieved that he had finished.  His
satisfaction lasted only a moment for Winnie threw her
arms around his neck with a little, joyous cry.

"Tom," she whispered, "I 'll be your wife gladly,
for I 've loved you for weeks."

"What?" cried Moore.  "Oh, Winnie, you are
only joking?  You don't mean it, Winnie?  You don't,
do you?"

Bessie gave a little sob.  She had quietly opened
the door in time to hear Moore's declaration, and,
thunderstruck, had stood there, unperceived until now.

Winnie, abashed at Bessie's look of scorn and
hatred, did not linger.  The door closed behind her,
and Moore, just beginning to realize his predicament,
stood facing his angered sweetheart.

"Bessie," he said, chokingly.  "Bessie, I can explain."

"I do not wish you to explain," she answered, her
voice all a-tremble.

"Hear me, Bessie," he began, desperately, but she
turned a deaf ear to his words.

"I 'll never believe you again, Tom Moore," she
said, flinging from her bosom the rose he had given
her.  "I am done with you."

Then, turning, she closed the door in his face, and
left him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`INTRODUCES MONTGOMERY JULIEN ETHELBERT SPINKS`:

.. class:: center large

   Book Two

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: noindent

   |     "*New hope may bloom,*
   |       *And days may come*
   |     *Of milder, calmer beam,*
   |   *But there's nothing half so sweet in life*
   |     *As Love's young dream:*
   |   *No, there's nothing half so sweet in life*
   |     *As Love's young dream.*"

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Eight*

.. class:: center medium

   *INTRODUCES MONTGOMERY JULIEN ETHELBERT SPINKS*

.. vspace:: 2

In the attic of an old house in Holywell Street,
London, a frowsy-headed, freckled-faced youth
was peering from the gabled window that fronted
on the busy thoroughfare below.  This lad was
conspicuous for his lack of beauty.  He had a round jolly
face, a turned-up and rather negatively developed nose,
and eyes of a neutral shade that might be described as
gray or green with equal correctness.  His mouth was
capable of stretching to a length almost awe-inspiring
when first beheld, but could be forgiven for this
extravagance, because the teeth thus exposed were white
and regular.  His chin was square and slightly protruding,
imparting a rather pugnacious expression to a face
that in other respects seemed to indicate that its owner
was of a decidedly good-humored disposition.  He
was stockily built, so thick-set, in fact, that a quick
glance would incline one to the belief that he was
rather plump than otherwise, but a closer examination
would have revealed that he owed his size to the
possession of an unusual amount of bone and muscle.
This young gentleman rejoiced in the sobriquet of
Buster, though his real title was much more elegant,
while lacking entirely in the almost epigrammatic
terseness of his nickname.  At the present time he
was anxiously waiting for the approach of an
old-clothesman who was slowly making his way down the
street, meanwhile inviting trade at the top of his lungs.
Buster and the old-clothesman were acquaintances of
long standing, though their relations were by no means
of a friendly nature, the eagerness with which the boy
awaited the man's coming being caused entirely by
a desire to drop a paper bag full of water upon
the latter's head from the height of three stories, a
proceeding which Buster was sanguine would be
productive of reason for unlimited merriment.  He had
the bag, empty as yet, clutched tightly in one hand,
while the other was within easy reach of a cracked
pitcher full of water standing on the floor near the
window.  A disreputable-looking bulldog, impartially
divided as to color between brindle and dirty white,
was inspecting proceedings in a most interested
manner from his seat on a rickety stool in the nearest
corner.

Buster sighed with impatience and the dog yawned
in sympathy.

"Lord Castlereagh, your rudeness is honly
hexceeded by your himperliteness, the both of wich is
hunsurpassed save by your bad manners.  You should
put your bloomin' paw hup before that 'ole in your
phis'omy when you sees fit to hexhibit your inards."

Lord Castlereagh cocked one dilapidated ear in
token of attention and wagged his apology for a tail
vigorously.

"You feels no remorse, eh?" demanded Buster,
severely.

"Woof!" remarked Lord Castlereagh, in extenuation.

"You 're a sinner, that's wot you are," announced
the boy, decisively, "and Hi 'as grave fear that you 'll
never git to the dog-star when you are disceased."

The bulldog seemed depressed at this prediction,
and, as though resolved to convince Buster of the
injustice of his statement, leaped off the stool and
approached him with various contortions supposed to
be illustrative of regret and a desire to obtain
restoration to a place in the youth's approval.

At this moment the old-clothesman paused beneath
the window, and putting his hand trumpet-wise to his
mouth, shrilly declared his ability and willingness to
purchase whatever cast-off garments those dwelling in
the vicinity might desire to sell.  Buster promptly
filled the paper bag with water from the pitcher, and,
leaning out as far as he dared, dropped it with precise
aim on the head of the old-clothesman.  It landed fair
and square upon the crown of the dilapidated beaver
ornamenting his head, and burst with a soft squash,
drenching his shoulders and scattering a spray all
around him.

The dealer uttered a stream of oaths, and, mopping
his face with a handkerchief of dubious hue, looked
around for the author of this apparently unprovoked
attack.  As the missile had come from above, the
fellow naturally looked upward in search of an enemy,
but found nothing more suspicious in view than the
head of a bulldog which was thrust from a window
in dignified contemplation of the scene.  Unfortunately
the old-clothesman was well acquainted with the
forbidding countenance of the dog, and promptly
attributing his recent ducking to the usual companion
of the animal, proceeded to vigorously announce his
doubts as to the respectability of Buster's immediate
ancestry and his subsequent intentions when he should
be so lucky as to encounter the aforesaid youth.  It is
almost needless to say that these plans for the future
were scarcely of a nature to meet with the boy's
approval, involving as they did complete fistic
annihilation.  At once the head of Buster appeared in the
window, an expression of surprise lighting his round
face only to give way to one of gentle gratification
when his eye fell upon the irate peddler.

"Did Hi 'ear some one mentioning of my name?"
he demanded pleasantly.  "Oh, 'ow do you do,
Mr. Bekowsky?  His your 'ealth bloomin'?"

"I 'll bloom you, you imperent little villain,"
responded Bekowsky, threateningly, shaking his fist in
his anger.

"Wot's that, dear sir?" inquired Buster, in a polite
tone.  "You seems hexcited, Mr. Bekowsky.  Hits
very dangersome to get so over'eated, hand the summer
his 'ardly went yet."

"I 'll overheat you if I lays my hands on you,"
responded the old-clothesman.

"Then Hi 'll 'ave to be a cooling of you fer
protection," announced Buster, cheerfully, and without the
slightest warning he emptied the contents of the pitcher
he had been concealing behind him over the enraged
Bekowsky, drenching him thoroughly.

"Cool happlications is to be recommended when
feverish," he remarked, carefully lowering the pitcher
to the floor of the room without withdrawing his head
from the window, for, like all wise generals, he
considered it unsafe to lose sight of the enemy even for a
moment while the rear was unprotected.

"You murdering little devil, I 'll pay you for this,"
yelled the peddler.

"Hat the usual rates, hor special price?" asked
Buster, looking interested.

A crowd began to gather, but this did not interfere
with the boy's pleasure in the slightest degree.

"It's that little rat again," said a red-faced,
bull-headed cobbler.  "He 's the pest of the neighborhood."

"You houghtent to let your disapintment carry you
so far, Mr. Smirk," said Buster, reprovingly.  "'Cause
your shoes don't just suit my cultivated taste in the
way of feet, it don't follow nobody helse 'll buy 'em.
They 're doosed poor stuff, o' course, but no doubt
there is some foolish enough to wear 'em."

The cobbler cursed him enthusiastically, and,
encouraged by this support, the bespattered Bekowsky
borrowed a rattan of a bystander, and announced his
intention of favoring Buster with a call, for the
purpose of inflicting a castigation which he described as
much needed.

"Well, well!" exclaimed the lad, who was to be
thus favored.  "Ham I to be so honored?  Why
did n't you let hit be known before, so Hi could pervide
refreshments suitable for such a guest?"

"I 'll be up there in a minute," answered Bekowsky,
flourishing his stick.

"Hi can 'ardly wait so long.  Har you a-going to
bring your missus?" inquired Buster, quite
unintimidated.  "Hi understands that common report says
she is the best fighter in the family.  Did she lick you
last night, Hikey?"

This last was too much to be endured, so with
another volley of oaths, the infuriated peddler took a
firm grip on the rattan and entered the hall, the door
of which stood invitingly open.  The rabble assembled
in front of the house gave a cheer and waited eagerly
for developments.  Meanwhile Buster continued to
survey the crowd below with a critical glance, quite
oblivious to the danger brought near by the approach
of the peddler.  A minute passed and then another,
but the boy was still looking out the window, so it was
evident that Bekowsky had not yet reached the garret.
The crowd began to get uneasy.

"Were the 'ell is the bloomin' ragbag gone ter?"
asked one seedy individual.  "Don't 'e know 'ee 's
keeping us gents waiting?"

"Don't get himpatient, friends," advised Buster.
"Bekowsky 's lost 'is wind and the 'all is so dark he
can't see fer to find hit.  Hi 'll send 'im a bit o' candle
in a minute to 'elp 'im."

"He has fell and busted his neck, maybe," suggested
a butcher's apprentice, in a tone that seemed to indicate
he would not regard such a happening entirely in the
light of a calamity.

"Perhaps 'is 'art 'as been touched hand 'ee can't
bear to lay 'is 'and in hanger on a poor horphing like
me," said Buster, almost tearful at the thought of such
tenderness.  "Perhaps 'ee 'as a noble nature hin spite
o' that 'orrible phisomy."

"What d' ye's mane by congregating in front of me
door like this?" cried a harsh voice, flavored by a rich
Milesian accent.

"Hit's Mrs. Malone," exclaimed Buster.  "Hi'me
that glad to lay heyes hon 'er.  Come pertect me,
Mrs. Malone."

A burly Irishwoman, dressed in her best bib and
tucker, as becomes a lady out making a few neighborly
calls, elbowed her way through the crowd, sternly
exhorting them to disperse.

"Oh, it's you, you satan?" she remarked wrathfully,
gazing up at the freckled countenance of the
lad.  "Wot shenanigans have you been up to now?"

"Hi can't discuss my bizness hin front of a vulgar
mob," responded Buster, loftily.  "Hif you 'll come
hup, Mrs. Malone, Hi 'll be pleased to hinform you.
Hotherwise Hi 'll be forced to maintain an 'aughty
silence."

"Oh, I 'll come up alright," declared Mrs. Malone,
bent on getting to the bottom of the trouble at once.

"Hi 'opes so," replied Buster, doubtfully.  "Shall
Hi come to meet you?"

"Never mind."

"Hi don't mind, Mrs. Malone."

Mrs. Malone vanished in the hall and proceeded
upstairs at so rapid a gait that she failed to perceive
on the dimly lighted stairway the figure of Bekowsky,
who had been brought to a standstill by the sudden
appearance of Lord Castlereagh in fighting array at
the head of the stairs.  The dog so strongly resented
any movement, whether up or down, on the part of the
old-clothesman, that that individual had remained
stationary, not daring to stir a foot in either direction
until Mrs. Malone collided with him, forcing him to
advance upward on his hands and knees several steps,
a performance that brought Lord Castlereagh leaping
down upon him.

Bekowsky gave one yell of terror and flew down the
stairs in three bounds, the dog yelping furiously at his
heels, while Mrs. Malone escaped a bad fall only by
hanging on to the banisters, against which she had
backed herself in an effort to regain the breath rudely
expelled from her lungs by the collision.

"Buster, you omadhaun, what devil's work is this?"
gasped Mrs. Malone, as Lord Castlereagh disappeared
below.

Receiving no answer, the good woman prudently
decided to abandon her visit to the garret until the
bulldog should have returned to his domicile, leaving the
stairs free from peril, and therefore turned her steps
to her own headquarters on the floor beneath.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOM MOORE RECEIVES CALLS FROM MRS. MALONE AND MR. DYKE`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Nine*


.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE RECEIVES CALLS FROM MRS. MALONE AND MR. DYKE*

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN WHICH THE LANDLADY IS PLAYED A TRICK`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Ten*


.. class:: center medium

   *IN WHICH THE LANDLADY IS PLAYED A TRICK*

.. vspace:: 2

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,"

.. class:: noindent

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,

.. class:: noindent

--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--

.. class:: noindent

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.

.. class:: noindent

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?

.. class:: noindent

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOM MOORE RECEIVES VISITS FROM TWO COBBLERS AND A CLERK`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Eleven*


.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE RECEIVES VISITS FROM TWO COBBLERS AND A CLERK*

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 1

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN WHICH THE POET WARBLES TO MRS. MALONE`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Twelve*


.. class:: center medium

   *IN WHICH THE POET WARBLES TO MRS. MALONE*

.. vspace:: 2

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."
   |

.. _`"There's nothing half so sweet in life as Love's young dream."`:

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   :alt: "There's nothing half so sweet in life as Love's young dream."

   "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 wingéd 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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOM MOORE HAS A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT AND AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Thirteen*


.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE HAS A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT AND AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR*

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 2

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 protégée 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 protégé'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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SIR PERCIVAL LOVELACE IS FAVORED BY FORTUNE`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Fourteen*


.. class:: center medium

   *SIR PERCIVAL LOVELACE IS FAVORED BY FORTUNE*

.. vspace:: 2

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 protégé 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?"

.. _`"You are all in all to me, mavourneen."`:

.. figure:: images/img-178.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "You are all in all to me, mavourneen."

   "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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SETS FORTH CERTAIN EXPLANATIONS`:

.. class:: center large

   Book Three

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: noindent

   |   "*Oh! what was love made for, if it's not the same*
   |   *Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?*
   |   *I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,*
   |   *I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.*"

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Fifteen*

.. class:: center medium

   *SETS FORTH CERTAIN EXPLANATIONS*

.. vspace:: 2

Lord Brooking spoke truly when he
declared that the dedication of Moore's volume
of poems accepted by the Prince would bring
fame and prosperity to the young Irishman, who had
toiled with such enthusiasm and unwavering diligence
in paraphrasing and adapting the Odes of Anacreon.
Arrayed and ornamented by his brilliant fancy, owing
as much to their translator as to Anacreon himself,
they were given to the world and received with such
choruses of commendation from both the public and
the critics that the reputation of Thomas Moore was
firmly established by his first book.  Society delighted
itself by showing favor to the author it had hitherto
neglected.  Moore became a stranger to privation and
occupied the best suite in the dwelling presided over
by Mrs. Malone, who now was numbered in the ranks
of his greatest admirers.  In fact the old woman
seemed to take a personal pride in the social success
of her lodger, and followed with an enthusiasm worthy
of a better cause his course in the upper world as
traced by the papers in their reports of the diversions
of the aristocracy.  Moore remained quite unchanged
by his sudden good fortune.  Never even in his darkest
hour had he doubted that he deserved success, and,
now that it had come, he accepted it as his just
earnings and valued it as nothing more, though jubilant
that his merits had at last been recognized.  His
reception by the world of society was more than
flattering.  Where he was invited first because he was the
poetic lion of the season he was asked again on account
of his own charming personality.  Moore the poet
opened the door of the drawing-room for Moore the
society man, who was forthwith made an honored and
much-sought guest.  He sang his own songs in a
melting baritone that struck a responsive chord in
the hearts of young and old alike.  His ballads were
the most popular of the day.  Romantic swains and
sentimental maidens warbled them on every possible
occasion; but none equalled in feeling and grace the
manner in which they were rendered by the hitherto
unknown youth who had penned them.  The grand
dames were often rivals in their attempts to secure the
poet's presence at their *musicales* and receptions.  The
young bucks sought him as guest at their late suppers,
while the publishers bid against one another for the
privilege of printing his next book, as, in spite of his
gadding about from function to function, Moore
contrived to find time to continue his literary labors.  Lord
Moira, thanks to the glowing representations of his
nephew, made much of the poet, and through his
influence Moore became acquainted with certain of the
great gentlemen of the time who had but few moments
to waste on social amenities, and were therefore far
more exclusive than the better-known figures in the gay
world drawing its guiding inspiration from Carlton
House.  Though Moore did not lose his head as a
result of the flattery and admiration now showered
upon him, it would have been strange indeed if he had
not secretly exulted over the triumph he had won.
His almost juvenile delight was frankly acknowledged
by him in the long and loving letters he wrote to the
members of his own family, who in distant Dublin
gloried in the London victory of the firstborn.  It was
no odd or unusual thing for the poet to be seen at three
or four fashionable gatherings in one evening.  His
presentation to the Prince of Wales, whose
condescension had made certain the success of the Odes,
followed soon after the publication of the book, and
prince and poet were equally charmed, each with the
other.  Moore seized upon this meeting as an
opportunity to tender to his Highness the thanks previously
conveyed for him by Lord Brooking.  To his great
delight, Wales graciously declared that he considered
himself honored by the dedication of the volume, and
expressed a hope that they might have the opportunity
of enjoying each other's society on many occasions in
the near future.  Moore came away that evening
belonging wholly to the Regent, for, when that noble
gentleman willed it so, no one could be more charming,
and as his Highness was distinctly taken with the
clever and modest young poet, he saw fit to be more
than usually condescending and agreeable.  He had
chatted genially with Moore on literary topics of
present interest, complimented him on the grace and
rippling beauty of his translation of the Odes, and warmly
applauded the young Irishman's singing of several
of his own ballads.  Taking all things into consideration,
Moore had every reason except one to be content
with his present lot.  That the single disturbing
element in his existence was the misunderstanding with
Bessie Dyke need scarcely be asserted.  They met
frequently in society, for, thanks to the influence of Sir
Percival, the doors which Moore had pried apart by
mighty effort with his pen, had opened in easy
welcome to the beautiful young actress, who, though
coldly pleasant in her demeanor, made no attempt to
conceal her desire to avoid Moore when the opportunity
offered.  As he, hurt and hopeless, made but little
effort to force his company upon her, they might have
been comparative strangers for all the evidence of
mutual interest they gave at the various social
gatherings when they chanced to meet, so, though several
months had elapsed since Moore emerged from
obscurity, no progress had been made in his love affair.

Sir Percival Lovelace had contemplated his rival's
sudden rise to fame with interest, not unmixed with
cynical amusement, his humorous sensibilities being
rarely tickled at his own discomfiture, for this pleasant
gentleman was philosopher enough to extract cause for
merriment from his own disappointments and
miscalculations.  But the real reason for the toleration
exhibited by the baronet was the confidence he felt
that he had in his possession a weapon which, when
he chose to wield it, would not fail to utterly destroy
Moore in the estimation and good graces of the
Regent, for Sir Percival felt certain that the loss of royal
favor would result in the social ruin of his rival.  As
he thought he had ascertained by various means that
there was comparatively little likelihood of the
differences between Bessie and her lover being patched up,
Sir Percival had held back the blow which he intended
should completely demolish the prosperity of the poet,
deciding to allow Moore to climb even higher on the
ladder of fortune before knocking it from beneath his
feet, that a greater fall might follow.  But meanwhile
the baronet had not been idle in other directions.  Like
many other gentlemen of the quill, Robin Dyke
imagined that he was possessed of much ability in affairs
of finance, and as numerous opportunities were ever at
hand for indulgence in such hazards as are afforded
by stock speculation to the unwary, he succeeded in
quickly and secretly losing all the money he made over
and above the funds necessary to maintain the modest
little home tenanted by himself and daughter.  After
much mental debating he mentioned his indiscretion
to his patron, who, scenting immediately a chance to
secure a much-desired hold upon the foolish old
gentleman, at his own suggestion loaned Dyke three hundred
pounds, taking notes at ninety days' sight in exchange
for the sum, stipulating that the matter should be kept
from Bessie.  Dyke, naturally reluctant to admit the
previous ill-success of his investments to his daughter,
readily consented to accept this condition, and without
more ado proceeded to send good money after bad by
repeating his financial mistakes.  This time he
hesitated very little before acquainting Sir Percival with
his lack of success, and found no difficulty in securing
a further loan of another three hundred pounds, the
investment of which resulted in even more brilliant
disaster than before.  Sanguine ever of ultimate
success which should retrieve the losses already incurred,
the worthy but foolish old rhymer increased his
indebtedness to Sir Percival until he owed him in all
one thousand pounds without Bessie having even a
suspicion of the true state of affairs.  Time passed
and the notes matured, but Dyke, having no means
of settling, frankly announced the fact to his patron
and received reassuring smiles in return, a reply which
fully contented him.  The baronet affected to be quite
indifferent as to the length of the period he might
have to wait for his money, and told Dyke to take
his own time in repaying him.  This the old gentleman
proceeded to do and thus made possible the events
to be described in succeeding chapters.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOM MOORE SEPARATES A YOUNG LADY FROM HER SKIRT`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Sixteen*


.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE SEPARATES A YOUNG LADY FROM HER SKIRT*

.. vspace:: 2

It was at the splendid mansion of Lady Donegal
that Moore first met Mr. Sheridan.  Introduced
to the famous wit by no less a person than
George Brummell himself, Moore found not
unworthily bestowed the reverence he had felt from his
boyhood for the brilliant but erratic Irishman whose
previous success in the fashionable world of London had
served to render less difficult the progress of his
younger countryman when once begun, and on this
evening was laid the foundation of the friendship
destined to endure until the melancholy end of the
elder genius.  Mr. Walter Scott, as yet famed only for
his verse romances, for this was some years before the
fiery genius of Lord Byron, now a fat youth at Eton,
drove the genial Scotchman from the lyric field into
the world of prose where he has reigned supreme even
to this day, was another notable with whom Moore
became immediately and delightfully intimate.  The
sturdy intellect of Scott, who infused his vigorous
personality into all that flowed so readily from his
pen, was delighted and amazed at the grace and beauty
of the Irishman's more delicate imagery, while the
refined and subtler fancy of the younger poet was
filled with wonder by the other's stirring, rakehelly
border ballads.  Scott was the sturdy, gnarled, and
defiant oak in the literary forest; Moore the tender,
clinging ivy, enfolding and beautifying all that he
touched and lingered on.  No wonder, then, that their
admiration should be reciprocal.  The intimate crony
of these brilliant men, the hostess herself was a woman
of refined taste and much personal charm.  In her
Moore found a true and admiring friend, and
whenever he, for business or pleasure, was compelled to
absent himself from London, a delightful correspondence
was kept up, as pleasing to the great lady of
fashion as to the poet, for Moore, ever a favorite
among men, was not less popular with the opposite
sex, no matter what their rank in the world might be.

While he had good reason to treasure the friendship
of Lady Donegal for the sake of the brilliant
acquaintances whom he met at her mansion for the first time,
even a more tender and pleasing opportunity for
gratitude was to be afforded him, for here it was that
transpired the series of incidents which resulted finally in
his reconciliation with Bessie Dyke.

On the night in question Moore arrived in company
with Sheridan and Brummell, the two Irishmen having
spied the Beau in a cab driving to the reception at
Lady Donegal's as they were making their way toward
the same destination on foot.  They hailed the vehicle,
and when the driver had pulled up in obedience to a
signal somewhat unwillingly given by Brummell,
climbed in with hardly as much as a beg your leave,
making themselves quite comfortable in spite of the
remonstrances of the crowded and berumpled dandy,
the three thus reaching her ladyship's great mansion
together.

Moore paid his respects to his hostess, then, after
a brief session in the card-room with Mr. Sheridan,
which resulted in the enrichment of the elder Celt to
the extent of two guineas, made his way to a room
usually little frequented by the less intimate company,
intending to give definite shape in black and white to
a new song as yet unwritten, the garbled and
uncompleted verses of which had been running and jumping
in his head all day.

Much to his surprise, Moore found the writing desk
in use, the young lady who was busy scribbling being
no other than Bessie Dyke.  His first impulse was to
make a quiet exit, trusting to his noiselessness to effect
escape undiscovered, but reflecting that, as hitherto
he had not had so excellent an opportunity for an
uninterrupted conversation, he would be foolish to
allow such a chance for attempting to right himself
in her estimation to go unutilized, he thought better
of it, and so remained, announcing his presence by a
polite little cough, highly suggestive of a timidity but
slightly feigned.

Bessie looked up from her writing, then continued
her occupation until she had completed her task.

"Am I interrupting you, Mistress Dyke?"

"Does it look as though you were, Mr. Moore?"
she asked, tartly.

"Not exactly," he admitted, not at all encouraged
by her manner; "but appearances are deceiving, you
know."

"I usually accept them as conclusive," said she,
folding the sheet of paper which she had just finished.

"I know you do," said Moore, plaintively.  "It is
a bad habit to get into."

"No doubt you speak as an authority on the subject,
Mr. Moore?"

"On bad habits?  It is a bad habit I have of
speaking, you mean, Mistress Dyke?"

Bessie nodded and turned toward him, resting one
chubby elbow upon the desk.

"How London has changed you," sighed Moore,
regretfully, shaking his head as he spoke.

"And you?" said the girl in a critical tone.  "Surely
Mr. Thomas Moore, the friend of the Prince, is very
different from an unknown Irish rhymer?"

"Rhymer?" repeated he.  "I see you have been
talking with Sir Percival."

"To be sure," said Bessie.  "So pleasant and witty
a gentleman is worthy of attention."

Moore sighed, and drawing a chair nearer to the
desk sat down and crossed his legs comfortably.

"See here, Bessie," he said in his most persuasive
tones, "why should we quarrel in this foolish
fashion?"

The girl laughed in rather an embarrassed way and
shifted a little on the chair.

"If there is some other fashion in which you would
prefer to quarrel, perhaps it will be as acceptable as
this," she replied, lightly.

"Will you never be serious?" demanded the poet.

"Why should I be serious, sir?"

"To please me, if for no other reason."

"Ah, but why should I wish to please you, Mr. Moore?"

"It is a woman's duty to make herself agreeable."

"Not to every impudent young versifier who thinks
to do her honor with his attention," replied Bessie,
smiling mischievously as she rebuked an unruly ringlet
with one dimpled hand.

"But I have no such idea," protested Moore, quite
baffled by her behavior.

"No?  Surely a young man who proposes marriage
to two different girls in one afternoon must think
very well of himself?"

Moore groaned, and gave the girl an appealing
glance that failed to accomplish anything.

"Ah, Bessie, you have no heart!"

"Have you, *Mr. Moore*?"

"You have had it these two years, Bessie," he
replied, fervidly.

"You are quite mistaken, sir," quoth she, in tones
of conviction.  "I would have no use for such a thing,
so would not accept it.  You are thinking of some
other girl, *Mr. Moore*."

"I am thinking of you, Bessie."

"Then you are wasting your time, *Mr. Moore*, and
I 'll thank you to say 'Mistress Dyke' in the future
when you address me."

"I 'd like to say 'Mrs. Moore,'" replied the poet.

"What did you say, sir?" she demanded shortly,
an angry flash in her eyes.

"I said I 'd know more some day."

"That is certainly to be hoped," said Bessie.  "One
should be sanguine, no matter how futile such
cheerfulness may appear at the present time."

So far Moore had succeeded but poorly in breaking
down the girl's reserve, and though painfully
conscious of his failure, was nevertheless quite resolved
that the interview should not end with their present
attitudes unaltered.

That she herself was not averse to listening to his
arguments this evening was already fully proved, for
she had made no effort to conclude their conversation,
and in fact seemed waiting with no little interest for
the next attempt he might make to restore himself to
his old-time place in her regard.

"Mistress Dyke," began Moore, hopefully, favoring
the girl with a look as languishing as love could make
it, "do you know what your mouth reminds me of
as you sit there?"

"Cherries?" suggested the girl promptly.  "I believe
that is the usual comparison made by lame-witted
poets."

"No, indeed.  Cherries conceal pits, and, as you no
doubt remember, Joseph fell into one.  Now I am no
Joseph."

"No," said Bessie.  "You are more like Charles
Surface, I fancy."

"Never mind mixing the Drama with this conversation,"
replied Moore, chidingly.  "Forget for
a moment that you are an actress and remember you
are a woman, though no doubt it amounts to the same
thing."

"Well, what *does* my mouth remind you of, Mr. Moore?"
asked the girl, her curiosity getting the
better of her.

"Of better things, Mistress Dyke."

"Indeed?  What may they be, sir?"

"Kisses," replied the poet lightly.  "Ah, Bessie,
it is glad that I am that your mouth is no smaller."

"And why so?" she asked, suspiciously.

"The smaller a woman's mouth, the greater the
temptation."

.. _`"'The smaller a woman's mouth, the greater the temptation,' said Moore."`:

.. figure:: images/img-196.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "'The smaller a woman's mouth, the greater the temptation,' said Moore."

   "'The smaller a woman's mouth, the greater the temptation,' said Moore."

"Is that what you call me?"

"Your mouth, my dear.  Alluring is no name for
it.  Temptation?  Aye, that it is.  Twin ribbons of
rosy temptation, or I 'm no Irishman."

"We won't dwell upon that subject," announced
Bessie.

"If I were a honey-bee, I 'd live and die there,"
said Moore, sincerely.

"Where?" asked the girl.

"On the subject, *if I were a honey-bee*."

"The subject is closed," she answered, compressing
her lips in anything but an amiable expression.

"I don't like it so well that way."

"How you like it does not interest me at all, sir."

"Now I wish to speak to you seriously," said
Moore with becoming gravity.  "Please give me your
attention."

"I am listening, sir," she answered, a trifle uneasily.

"Very well, then.  Don't you think women should
try to make men better?"

"Yes."

"And to reduce their temptations?"

"Yes."

"Then, for instance, if you had a loaf of bread you
did not need and knew a man was starving for it,
would n't you rather give it to him than have him steal
it and be responsible for the sin?"

"Yes," said Bessie, "I would, undoubtedly."

"Ah," exclaimed Moore, happily, "then if I tell
you I am starving for a kiss and feel afraid I may steal
it, you will give me one to put me out of temptation?"

"On the contrary, I shall request you to cease talking
nonsense, and suggest that you had better sit down."

"I will, if it pleases you," replied Moore, smiling
sweetly at the girl, as he resumed the chair from which
he had risen in his eagerness a moment before.

"Oh," said Bessie, in a sarcastic tone, "you think
you are very clever, don't you?"

"Why should I deny it?  A good opinion is like
charity, and should begin at home."

"Does any one else think you are clever, Mr. Moore?"

"I don't know," answered the poet cheerfully; "but
if they do not, it only makes my opinion more valuable
on account of its rarity."

Bessie was compelled to smile by this ingenious
argument, and sought refuge behind her fan; but
Moore, seeing he had scored, followed up his success
resolutely.

"As you say," he continued, "I am clever."

"But," said Bessie indignantly, "I did not say that."

"You forget," replied Moore, loftily, "that a man's
opinion of what a woman thinks is based largely on
what she does not say."

"You surprise me, Mr. Moore.  Pray explain your
last assertion."

"Well, then, for example, I linger by your side and
you do not say 'Go away,' so my opinion is that you
wish me to remain."

"Oh," exclaimed Bessie, shocked at the mere idea
of such a thing.

"You do not say 'I hate you,' so my opinion is that
you l--"

"Mr. Moore," cried Bessie, sternly, and the poet
diplomatically allowed her interruption to finish his
remark.

"Men are so foolish," observed the girl, knitting
her brows in sad contemplation of masculine idiocy.
"Really it is quite saddening when one considers their
stupidity."

"And yet," said Moore, "if we were not such fools
you wise little ladies would find it much more difficult
to work your wills."

"I am not so sure of that," said Bessie, with a
sniff of superiority.  "Men are great nuisances at best."

"Had you rather I went away?" asked Moore, in
his most honeyed accents.  "Shall I go?"

"You must suit your own inclination, sir," replied
Bessie, too clever to be so entrapped.

"And you?" he returned.  "Can't you say 'I wish
you to stay'?"

"No, Mr. Moore."

"And why not, Mistress Dyke?"

"Girls do not say such things to men."

Moore sighed regretfully.

"I wish they did," said he.  "Don't you like me at
all any more?"

"Not very much," replied Bessie, with seeming
frankness.

"Won't you smile at me?"

"No," said Bessie, determinedly, "I will not."

As she spoke she turned away from the poet, but
he was not to be so easily defeated.

"Bessie," he whispered tenderly.  "Smile at me,
dearest, smile just once."

"No," she answered firmly, "I will not.  I don't
have to smile if I don't wish to, do I?"

But, alas for her determination, as she replied her
eyes met those of Moore; the twinkling merriment
which she read in her lover's gaze was too much for
her gravity, and so, in spite of her effort to keep a
sober face, she smiled back at him, and if it was not
the love-light that shone beneath her long lashes, it
was a something so entirely like it that a wiser man
than the young Irishman would have been pardonable
for making such a mistake.

"Oh," he said, lovingly triumphant, "what do you
think about it now?"

"Well," said Bessie, in quick equivocation, "I
wanted to smile then.  You are very ridiculous, Mr. Moore."

"You make me so, Bessie."

"What did I tell you about that name?" she
demanded, rising to her feet.

"I forgot, Bessie," he replied defiantly.

"If that is the case you shall have the opportunity
to recall it to mind," said she, sternly, at the same
time moving towards the door.  But her foot caught
in her skirt and as she recovered her balance with a
little cry there was an ominous sound of ripping
plainly heard.

"There," cried Bessie in a rage, "I 've stepped on
a ruffle.  It is all your fault, Tom Moore."

"Of course it is," replied the poet.  "It always is,
as we both know."

Bessie, meanwhile, had investigated the extent of
the damage she had sustained.  The lace ruffle on her
underskirt had been torn off for at least two feet.  The
thing was utterly ruined, and, gritting her teeth as she
realized this, Bessie tried to tear off the loose piece.
This, however, proved to be beyond her strength, so,
abandoning the attempt with an exclamation of rage,
she stamped her foot in anger.

"Let me help you," said Moore politely.  "No
doubt, I can break the plaguey thing, Mistress Dyke."

.. _`"I can break the plaguey thing, Mistress Dyke.`:

.. figure:: images/img-200.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "I can break the plaguey thing, Mistress Dyke.

   "I can break the plaguey thing, Mistress Dyke.

"You are the cause of all the trouble," said Bessie,
crossly.

"All the more reason, then, for letting me help you
repair the damage.  You can't dance with that trailing
in front of you."

Moore took the end of the ruffle which Bessie held
out to him, and, securing a firm grip upon it, marched
across the room, thus ripping off the entire bottom of
the skirt.

"Thank you," said Bessie, more graciously, extending
her hand for the torn piece.

Moore shook his head and held the ruffle behind him.

"Give it to me, sir," exclaimed the girl indignantly.

"It is the foam on the wave of loveliness," declared
the poet, waving his prize as though it were a pennant,
but carefully keeping it out of Bessie's reach.

"You cannot have it, sir," she said, sternly.

"Women are enveloped in mystery," he continued,
quite unrebuked, "yards of it.  If there is anything
I love, it is mystery, so I 'll keep this for myself."

"Why?"

"For a souvenir.  Think of the memories associated
with it, Bessie."

"What good will it be to you?" she asked, rather
more pleasantly.

"It would be a great success as a necktie," Moore
went on, draping it beneath his chin.  "Thusly, for
instance, or I might wear it on my arm, or next my
heart."

"Give me that ruffle," cried Bessie, snatching at it
as she spoke, and by good luck catching it.

"Let go," commanded Moore.  "If you don't I 'll
kiss your hands for you."

"Oh, no, you won't."

But he did.

"Please," pleaded the girl, not letting go.

"I don't intend to keep it, Bessie, on my word of
honor."

Confident that she had secured her object, the girl
released the ruffle and stepped back.

"Thank you, Mr. Moore," said she, waiting expectantly.

"Oh, not at all, Mistress Dyke.  What are you
waiting for?"

"For that."

"But you do not get this, Mistress Dyke."

"But you promised, sir."

"I did not say I would *give it to you*," explained
Moore, genially.  "I merely promised that I would
*not keep* it.  Well, I won't.  I happen to have your
card in my pocket--it's a wonder it is n't the mitten
you have presented me with so often--and this card
I shall pin on the ruffle, which I shall then hang on this
candelabra, where it will remain until found by some
one, and what they will think of you then is beyond
my power to imagine."

Moore suited the action to the word as he spoke,
and the bundle of frills was securely perched on the
candle-rack protruding from the wall a good seven
feet from the floor before Bessie fully realized how
completely she had been outwitted.

Then she lost her temper entirely.

"You cheat," she cried furiously.  "Oh, I should
have known better than to trust you."

"Certainly you should," replied the poet, politely
agreeing with the irate damsel.  "I was surprised
myself at the simplicity of your behavior."

"However," she continued, "I shall never believe
you again."

"Never?"

"*Never*, Mr. Moore, and I am very angry with you."

"Really?" asked he.  "Why, whoever would have
suspected it, Bessie?"

"Luckily I can get it without your assistance," she
went on.  "You are not half so smart as you imagine."

"Of course not," observed Moore, watching her as
she stood on tiptoe and vainly endeavored to reach the
cause of all the trouble.  "Take care, Bessie, or you 'll
tear something else."

The girl was baffled only for the moment, for
directly beneath the candelabra stood the desk at which
she had been writing a few moments before.  As the
top, which when open formed the writing table, was
let down, it was an easy thing for her to step up on it
from the seat of a chair, and then from there to the
top of the desk.  This was what Bessie did as quickly
as was possible, for she was considerably handicapped
in her climbing by her long train.

"There is nothing like independence," remarked
the poet, observing her with a broad smile, as she
performed this manoeuvre and stood in triumph on the
desk.  "Like marriage, it usually begins with a
declaration and ends with a fight.  It did in America."

"You imagine you are witty," said Bessie, in icy
tones, picking the ruffle from its perch on the candelabra.

Moore stepped quickly forward and shut up the
desk.  This done he removed the chair by which she
had mounted and had her completely at his mercy.

"And you," he said pleasantly, "imagine you are
independent."

Bessie turned carefully and discovered her plight
with a little exclamation of dismay.

"Put that chair back and open this desk immediately,"
she commanded sternly.

"The chair is doing very well where it is," replied
Moore, calmly sitting down upon it.

Bessie bit her lip in anger.

"It is not customary for a gentleman to sit while
a lady remains standing."

"Nor is it usual," answered Moore, "for a lady
to climb up on a desk."

.. _`"Nor is it usual for a lady to climb up on a desk," said Moore.`:

.. figure:: images/img-204.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "Nor is it usual for a lady to climb up on a desk," said Moore.

   "Nor is it usual for a lady to climb up on a desk," said Moore.

"You think you know a lot about women, don't you?"

"I am always willing to learn more," responded the
victorious poet, blithely.

"Oh, dear," sighed the girl, "I don't dare jump
with these high-heeled slippers on."

"I observe that your tastes are elevated, even in
shoes.  Give me the ruffle and I 'll help you down."

"No, sir, you shall not have it."

"Hurry, I think I hear some one coming," exclaimed
Moore in an alarmed tone.

"Do help me down."

"The ruffle first."

"Oh, there you are," she cried, abandoning herself
to utter defeat as she tossed him the bribe he demanded.

Once safely on the floor, Bessie ran lightly to the
entrance leading to the adjoining room and peeped out
to see who was approaching.  Much to her astonishment
she discovered no one near, then, turning, read
in Moore's laughing eyes how cleverly she had been
tricked.

"There is no one coming," she said severely.

"Is there not?" asked the poet, stowing away the
prize he had won in his coat-tail pocket.  "Shall I
help you up on the table again?"

Bessie looked daggers at him, but he smiled blandly
back at her in innocent good-nature.

"I am very angry with you," she announced,
decisively.  "Really, Mr. Moore, your behavior is
perfectly intolerable."

"And why are you so provoked?  Because I took
your ruffle?" queried the poet.  "Why angry, since
I left the skirt?"

"Mr. Moore!" she cried warningly.

"Well, Mistress?"

"Be careful, sir!"

"I do not have to be," he answered, "but you are
very different.  Now you dare not be long cross."

"Oh, don't I, indeed?  And if I dare not, what is
the reason, sir," she demanded in a tone as sarcastic
as she could make it, though this, it must be admitted,
was not saying much.

"Because," he said, slowly and coolly, "if you do
let your temper get the better of you the skirt is liable
to follow the ruffle into my possession."

"Insolent," exclaimed the girl, sitting down and
carefully turning her back towards her tormentor.

That she was very angry with Moore cannot be
doubted.  Probably it was because she was so
exasperated at his behavior and so desirous of being plagued
no further by him that she remained in this secluded
nook instead of returning to the adjacent rooms, the
greater number of which were thronged with guests.
Certainly her staying where she was could not be
regarded as anything but indicative of a sincere desire
to be rid of his company.  Unfortunately this very
evident fact was not plain to the poet, for he proceeded
quite as though he interpreted her tarrying as proof
of his own success in providing her with pleasant
diversion, a grievous error, as any one conversant with
the real state of affairs would have admitted.

"Lady Donegal is a delightful hostess, is n't she,
Mistress Dyke?"

"At last you have suggested a subject on which we
can agree," replied Bessie, stiffly.

"Oh, I can suggest another," said Moore, trying to
catch her eye, an undertaking Bessie rendered a failure
by resolutely turning her head away.

"What is that, Mr. Moore?"

"You know I think you are very pretty, Bessie."

"As though I care what you think."

"And I know *you* think you are very pretty, so
we agree again."

"You think I am conceited."

"I know you have good reason to think well of
yourself," answered Moore, sweetly.

"Indeed, sir?"

"Indeed, ma'am, for are you not favored with the
undying devotion of one Thomas Moore?"

"Oh," said Bessie, disappointed.

Moore approached her chair and, circling round it,
tried to make her look him in the face, but she foiled
all his attempts by twisting from side to side like a
sulky schoolgirl.

"You 'll choke yourself, Bessie," he said, apprehensively.
"You 'll have a neck like a corkscrew before long."

"There would be no danger if you would cease
intruding yourself upon my meditation," snapped the
girl, crossly.

"'She who meditates is lost,'" quoted the poet.
"Ah, Bessie darlin', look around at me.  Won't you,
Bessie?  Do, there's a dear."

"I am not to be fooled by your blarneying tongue,
Mr. Moore.  I, too, am Irish."

"You don't behave like it," said he.

"You do not regulate my behavior, sir."

"I wish I did," remarked Moore.  "I could
improve it a good deal without much effort."

"You need not trouble."

"Oh, no trouble at all, I assure you."

"Your assurance is the best part of you, Mr. Moore."

"I could n't say what part of you is the best,
dearest," he answered in a soothing tone, that only made
the girl more angry.  "Collectively you outclass any
colleen in the Kingdom.  Now will you look around
at me?"

"No."

"You won't?  If you do not behave I will have to
punish you."

"*You* punish *me*?" she repeated scornfully.  "You
forget yourself, Mr. Moore."

"That is because when I am near you I can think
of no one else.  If you don't look around and bestow
on me one of your sweetest smiles I shall not permit
you to leave the room."

"I 'll go the moment I am ready."

"Oh, no you won't, if I decide to make you my
prisoner," he predicted.  "Your last chance, my dear
young lady; will you do as I ask?"

"Not I, Mr. Moore," she answered, keeping her
face resolutely turned from him.  This was what he
desired, for without attracting her attention he lifted
the hem of her dress, and putting perhaps a foot of the
skirt in one of the drawers of the desk, shoved it shut
and locked it, thus effectually tethering her.  She
heard the click of the key, but not suspecting the
cause of the noise, continued her inspection of vacancy,
while Moore, bubbling over with his merry triumph,
retired to the opposite side of the room.

"You are locked up now, Bessie," he announced
with a chuckle.  "If you will cast your eye to the left
you will see how securely I hold you."

Bessie, her curiosity aroused by the satisfaction
perceptible in the poet's voice, rose, intending to
investigate the state of affairs from the centre of the
room.  A sudden tug at her dress which nearly tilted
her over backwards on her little high heels brought
her to an astonished standstill, and turning, she
perceived the result of Moore's scheming.

"How dare you?" she cried, this time really angry.

"I hardly know myself," he answered gayly.  "I
think it must be the courage of despair."

Meanwhile the girl had made several unsuccessful
attempts to withdraw her dress from the closed drawer,
and, abandoning the effort, turned in maidenly fury
upon her captor.

"You wretch!"

"You are locked in, Bessie, dear."

"Give me the key instantly, Mr. Moore.  Do you hear?"

"Yes," replied the poet.  "I hear."

"I never saw such a fellow," she began, but he
interrupted her blandly.

"There is none like me," he asserted.

"A very fortunate thing for the world, sir."

"But, Bessie, think how many poor young girls
there are just pining for such a love as I 've offered
you, and who will never have the luxury, since there
is only one Moore."

"I did n't know you could be so horrid," she said,
her voice trembling with anger.

"Oh, I can be even more so," he answered.  "In
fact, if I want to, I can be about the horridest person
there ever was."

"I believe you," she said sincerely.  "Once I did
rather like you--"

"Indeed?  You concealed it amazingly well."

"--but, now I--I--"

"Well, what now?"

"I fairly hate you," she stormed, tugging
impatiently at her skirt.

"I am not surprised to hear you say that, Bessie.
What is it the poet says?"

"I abominate all poets."

"Let me see.  I have it.

   |   "'What ever's done by one so fair
   |   Must ever be most fairly done--'

.. class:: noindent

   "Even hating, Bessie."

"I 'll call for help unless you release me instantly,"
she threatened.

"Do you wish everybody to say you were so saucy
to me that I had to lock you up?  To the ordinary
observer, less appreciative of your beauty, you might
appear rather ridiculous tethered here.  Think how
pleasant that would be for all the other young girls,
who are already envious of your superior attractions."

This supposition was altogether too likely to prove
true for Bessie to force matters as she had announced
she intended doing, so she abandoned all idea of
outside assistance.  Having failed in intimidation she,
woman-like, resorted to cajolery.

"Please give me the key, Tom," she said in her
sweetest tone.

"I 'll trade with you, Bessie.  I 'll give you the
key of the desk for a lock of your hair."

"Very well," she answered, much relieved at the
insignificance of the ransom demanded.

"I want that little curl to the left of your forehead
just in front of your ear," he continued, cunningly
selecting a ringlet that could not be shorn without
utterly spoiling the girl's appearance indefinitely.

"I can't give you that one," she said, indignantly.

"Oh, very well, then.  You shall enjoy solitary
confinement for the next five minutes.  When that
time has expired, I will return and afford you the
opportunity of assuring me how much you regret all
the cross and inconsiderate things you have said to-night."

"I 'll *never* do that," she cried.

"Usually," asserted Moore, "a girl's *never* means
*to-morrow*."

"This instance is an exception."

"True, Bessie, for this time it means five minutes.
Behold the key to the problem."

With a teasing gesture Moore held up the bit of
brass, the possession of which had made the girl's
punishment possible.

"If you go," said the girl, firmly and slowly, "it
means we shall never be friends again."

"Pooh!" observed the poet with an indifference
most insulting, "you do not frighten me in the least,
my dear.  I do not wish to be your friend."

So saying, he deposited the key in his pocket and
walked toward the door with a self-satisfied swagger.

Bessie, driven to desperation, was about to call to
him not to go, hoping he would propose some other
terms of settlement, when he took his handkerchief
out of his pocket and waved it at her before stepping
out of the room.  She smothered a little cry of delight
and waited impatiently for his steps to die away as
he walked toward the farther door of the apartment
adjacent.  Moore had carelessly drawn the key out
of his pocket with his handkerchief, and it had dropped
noiselessly upon the floor, the sound of its fall
deadened by the soft carpet.

"Now, how can I get that key?" thought Bessie.
"If I only had a long stick!  I 'll try to reach it with
a chair."

But she could not come within a yard of it even
with this help.

"I wish I knew how to swear," she murmured.
"I really believe I would.  Perhaps I can pick the
lock with a hairpin.  I have heard of prisoners
escaping in that way.  Prisoner.  *Tom's prisoner*."

She smiled involuntarily, and then, realizing what
she was doing, gave herself a shake of disapproval.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Bessie Dyke,"
thought she.  "After the way that man has treated
you, you should hate him.  I will hate him, the horrid
thing."

Leaning over, she strove to unlock the drawer with
the hairpin but scored a decisive failure, and in
consequence again waxed wrathful.  The next bright idea
that suggested itself to her mind was that she might
possibly drag the desk across the floor to where the
key lay exasperatingly plain in view, but she found
her young strength far too little to even budge the
cumbersome old piece of furniture.  Then another
plan came to her and she gave a little gurgling laugh,
half delight, half fear, and began to consider it in
detail.

"If I dared, oh, if I dared," she whispered.  "I
wonder if I can risk it?  It would n't take a minute.
*I will do it, so there*."

As she spoke, she fumbled with the fastening of her
dress.  The next moment it fell from around her waist,
and stepping out of the circular heap of millinery
surrounding her which it made upon the floor, she
was free to go where she pleased.

Flushed with success, and yet frightened beyond
measure lest she should be caught by some stray guest
in her present incomplete costume, the girl danced
laughingly across the floor, keeping out of line with
the door for fear some one might enter the next room,
and, reaching the key, pounced on it in triumph.

"Now we will see," she laughed.  "Oh, you think
you are very clever, Mr. Thomas Moore, but I fancy
there are one or two others just as sharp as you are."

Hastening back to the desk, she inserted her prize
in the lock and endeavored to turn it, but did not
succeed in doing so, for it did not fit at all well.  She
tried again and again, but no better success rewarded
her efforts, and slowly it dawned upon her that this
was not the required key.  She had again fallen victim
to the cunning of the young Irishman.

"It is n't the one," she cried.  "It is much too big.
Oh, he did it on purpose.  What *shall* I do?"

It was quite evident that she could not long remain in
such abbreviated attire without being detected by some one.

A vigorous pull at the skirt now limply pendant
from the prisoning drawer proved that it was just
as impossible to release it when vacated by its owner
as when it adorned her person.  In fact, Bessie's
brilliant idea had availed her not in the least, and,
realizing this, she was about to step into the skirt with
a view to assuming her shackling finery, when the
sound of her tormentor's voice, singing softly to
himself as he approached, gave her warning of his coming.

With a little gasp of alarm Bessie fled to the cover
of the portières which separated the window recess
from the room and sheltered by their clinging folds
waited for developments.





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.. _`HONORS ARE EASY`:

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   *Chapter Seventeen*


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   *HONORS ARE EASY*

.. vspace:: 2

The poet strode gayly into the room, quite at
peace with the world and decidedly pleased
with one Thomas Moore, in both these
particulars holding opinions widely differing from the
views cherished by the young lady concealed behind
the curtains.

"What?" remarked Moore.  "Is she gone?  Dear
me, how unkind of her to go without saying good-bye."

Then, apparently observing the skirt for the first
time, he continued:

"Ah, she has left this behind for me as a souvenir
of the occasion.  How considerate of her."

Stooping, he unlocked the drawer and drew forth
the imprisoned millinery.  Then flinging it carelessly
over his arm, he started toward the door, apparently
intending to return to the crowded rooms which he
had just quitted.

From behind the curtains Bessie regarded his actions
with an exasperation and helplessness which were
about equally possessed of her mind.  What should
she do?  If she betrayed her presence she would be
more than ever at his mercy, yet it was clearly
impossible to allow him to carry off her skirt, as he seemed
to purpose doing.  Abandoning all pride, she gave
a squeak of alarm as Moore reached the door.

"Did I hear some one address me?" he demanded,
turning on the threshold.

"Sir," said Bessie, desperately from the window,
her brown head visible between the curtains.

"Oh, you are there, are you?" said Moore, apparently
greatly astonished.

"Bring me that--*That*," she said, blushing a little
as she spoke.

"That what?" he asked.

She pointed angrily at the skirt adorning his arm.

"That," she repeated more loudly.

"This?" said he, obtusely, holding up his prize.

"Yes.  Give it to me immediately."

"But," objected Moore, "I don't know that you
have any right to it.  Can you prove it to be your
property?"

"I can," replied Bessie with emphasis, "but I won't."

"I am sorry, Mistress Dyke, but under the
circumstances I really must refuse."

"But it is mine, Mr. Moore."

"But I have no proof that it is n't somebody else's.
Perhaps it belongs to Mr. Sheridan."

"What nonsense."

"Oh, I don't know about that.  Richard Brinsley
is said to be fond of the petticoats.  Perhaps this is
one he carries around with him.  I 'll go ask the old
boy."

"Don't you dare," she cried.

"Well, can you identify this as your property?"
insisted the poet, not loth to prolong her discomfiture.

"Certainly, sir," she replied.  "You will find a
handkerchief in the pocket with my initials stitched
in the corner with white silk."

"All right, my dear," said Moore, looking for the
pocket and not finding it immediately.  "Where is
the infernal--Oh, I have it!"

And inserting his hand in the elusive object of
his quest he drew forth a powder puff.

"Oh," said Bessie, and vanished behind the curtains,
while Moore viewed his recent find with delighted
curiosity.

"What's this, Bessie?"

No answer rewarded his inquiry.

"Oh, I understand," he went on.  "This is the
frosting on the cake of beauty."

Then, carefully powdering himself, he crossed to
the mirror over the mantel on the opposite side of
the room and inspected the result of his labor.

"Humph," said he.  "I look seasick.  I'll have
none of this for me."

And he industriously rubbed his face with his
handkerchief.

"Oh, do hurry up," implored the girl, fearful lest
some other of the guests should enter the room before
she recovered her belongings.

"I was not made in a hurry," replied Moore.  "The
more haste the less speed, so I 'll take my time in my
investigations."

The next thing he took from the pocket was a little
black and white sketch of himself which had been
drawn at a supper party the week before by no less
distinguished a gentleman than Samuel Rogers, the
banker poet.

"My picture!" he exclaimed in surprise.  "How
did you get this, Bessie?"

"If you must know, Mr. Rogers threw it away
and I picked it up," she replied, displaying as much
regard for the truth as any of her sex would be likely
to under the same circumstances.

"I 'm honored, Mistress Dyke," observed Moore,
bowing to the portière with formal grace and politeness.
"You show much taste in your selection of
works of art."

Proceeding with his search, Moore now brought to
light the handkerchief, which he promptly confiscated.

"Mistress Dyke," he said, at the same time tucking
away the handkerchief in his breast pocket, "I am
now convinced that this is your property."

"Then give it to me at once," she directed.

"Not yet," said Moore.  "If I remember correctly,
I made a statement to you concerning an apology
which I thought should be forthcoming to me.  Well,
I have n't received it as yet."

"Bully!" remarked Bessie as spitefully as she could,
which was not a little.

"Did I hear aright?" asked Moore.  "Did I hear
some one call me a bully?"

"Please, oh, please, give me--that!" she pleaded,
but Moore was not to be turned aside from his march
to triumph.

"Did I hear some one say 'Tom, I am truly sorry
for my crossness to-night'?" he asked.

"I won't say it," she declared, but her voice lacked
determination.

"I really must be going," said Moore, taking a step
towards the door.

She gave a squeal of terror.

"I will, I will!" she cried.

"I hope so, Bessie," he replied, pausing.

"Tom, I am truly sorry for the cross things you
have said to me to-night."

She mumbled it quickly, hoping he would not
distinguish the adaptation she made in the sentence
he had dictated; but Moore heard and defeated her.

"That won't do," he said sternly.  "Try again."

"Tyrant!" she exclaimed ferociously.

"That is not a pretty name, Bessie."

"It is appropriate," she said, coldly.

"Go on with the apology."

The girl made an effort and proceeded with her
unwilling penance in the meekest of tones.

"Tom, I am truly sorry for the cross things I have
said to you to-night.  Now give me it."

"Don't be in such a hurry, Bessie.  There is more
to be said."

"Oh, dear! will you never be satisfied?"

"Not till you are all mine," he answered in his
tenderest tones.

"That will be a long time," she said determinedly.

"I can wait, but to continue--Say 'You are an
old nuisance, Tom, but I like to have you around.'"

"You are an old nuisance, Tom, but I like to have
you around," she repeated, parrot-like; then she
added sweetly, "I have something else I wish to tell you."

Deceived by her sentimental tone, Moore stepped
near the curtains and like a flash she snapped the skirt
off his arm and vanished behind her shelter.

"The deuce!" exclaimed Moore, in chagrin.

The curtains undulated violently as though some
vigorous performance were being enacted behind them.
The next moment Bessie, fully attired, swept out
between them and across the room, her independence
and peace of mind restored with the resumption of
the purloined garment.

"Bessie," said Moore, persuasively, and she halted
on the threshold in haughty response.  "Bessie, won't
you let me speak to you before you go?"

"I fear it will only be a waste of time, Mr. Moore,"
she answered.

"Yet I waited when you asked me to from behind
the curtains," he said, a glint of laughter in his eyes.

Bessie winced, but the stare she favored him with
was both cold and disdainful.

"But, Mr. Moore," she answered, "I had something
to say to which you wished to listen."

"You mean," he corrected, "you had to say something,
Bessie, that I wished to hear.  There never was
maid more unwilling to do what she was bid than you."

"Pray hasten your words, sir.  I am listening."

"Bessie," he whispered, all the music and poetry
to which the love in his heart had given life vibrant
in his caressing voice, "Bessie, mavourneen, let's have
done with this bickering.  The days of youth fly far too
fast for us to waste them in contention.  You are the
breath of my life, darlin'.  Say you 'll take me back
to my old place in your heart this night and ne'er send
me a-journeying again while we live."

She walked slowly to the fireplace and resting her
arm on the mantel above stood looking into the blaze.
Moore, encouraged by her return, drew near her.

"You know I love you deeply and truly as any
woman has ever been loved," he murmured, standing
so close that his warm, eager breath gently stirred
and set a-quivering the tiny ringlets clustered on her
neck.  "And I can't bear to go on like this.  You
must hear me to-night, Bessie darlin', once and for
all.  I love you; with all my heart and all my soul I
love you, dearest of girls.  You planted my heart full
of roses of passion the first day that I met you, and
each and every bud has come to blossom.  Your dear
eyes have looked into mine and written your name
upon my heart.  There is not a curl that steals kisses
from your cheek I 'd not give my life to be, unless
that curl and the proud head it graces can both be
mine.  Ah, Bessie, dearest, Bessie, darling, be my wife
and make me the happiest man on earth.  Aye, or in
heaven."

If he could have seen her eyes he would never have
listened to the words of her reply, for in their depths
shone an answer so sweet and tender and surrendering
that even he, oft rejected and almost despairing wooer
that he was, could not have mistaken or read as aught
else but final.  But, resolved not to yield yet, though
a love as strong and passionate as his own was tugging
at her heart-strings, she kept her face turned from
him till her original determination, aided by mischief
which prompted her to punish him for all the humiliation
she had just suffered at his hands, sufficed to
give her control of her emotions.  Then she turned
coldly and said:

"Tom, you really should put that into rhyme.  You
have never written a prettier poem."

He started at her words and drew back a pace or two.

"You make a jest of me," he said in an offended tone.

"And why so, sir?  I refused to marry you when
you were poor."

"Do you think I've forgotten it?" he demanded.

"Now, if I married you, people would say I took
back my 'No' because of your rise in the world.  Why,
even you once spoke as though you thought I might
be influenced by such sordid considerations."

"You do not believe--you never have believed--that
I thought you capable of such a vile thing," he
responded hotly.  "You seized on that as a means to
hold me off.  You must needs play your game of
hide-and-seek till you are weary, regardless of my pain
and despair."

"The world would say I married you for your
money," she continued, paying no heed to his words.
"You know how quick it is to misinterpret the best
of motives."

"If they said that they 'd lie, Bessie," said Moore.
"Save that I have paid my debts and incurred no
others, I 'm no richer, for as yet I 've made no fortune.
On my honor, I 'm still as poor as you are pretty, and
the glass will show you I must be little better than a
beggar.  Like your father, dearest, my future--all
my hope of wealth and fame these next few
years--depends upon the Regent's favor, so it couldn't
be for aught but love.  Ah, alanna, say you 'll have me?"

"No," she answered with great emphasis, and
crossed the room.  Once on the other side she repeated
her reply, but this time in a tone soft and cooing, but
if she expected by this last manoeuvre to elicit further
wooing from her lover she made a mistake, for, justly
wrathful at the treatment she accorded him, he threw
caution to the winds.

"So?" he cried, hoarsely.  "You still refuse?
Then listen to me.  I 've courted you from the first
day I saw you.  From the moment our eyes met I 've
loved you faithfully and truly.  I 've sung to you of
love--I 've talked to you of love--I 've begged for
it upon my knees--and you?  You have laughed at
me.  Because my heart was full of you there was no
room for resentment, and I, too, laughed and made
a jest of what was breaking it.  That is past; I've
offered it to you for the last time.  I 'll never again
ask you to be my wife."

"Oh," said the girl, momentarily shocked at his
vehemence, but quickly recovering.  "Tom, you 'll
never again ask me to marry you?"

"No," he answered roughly, and sat down beside
the fire.

"Then," she went on mournfully, "there is only
one thing for me to do."

"What is that?" he asked moodily.

"If you won't ask me to marry you, then some day
I--I--"

She hesitated, the words hindered by the smile that
could not be denied.

"Well?"

"*Then some day I'll have to ask you to marry me.*"

Moore leaped to his feet.

"Will you, Bessie?" he cried.

"Who knows?" she answered, backing towards the door.

"What would you say?"

"I 'd say 'I love you, Tom; will you be my husband?'"

"You would?"

"*That is, if I should happen to want you, which
is n't at all likely.*"

Then, with a rippling laugh, Bessie turned her back
on him, and strolled off, satisfied that she had avenged
her wrongs of the evening.  And had she not?





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.. _`TOM MOORE MOVES IN DISTINGUISHED COMPANY`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Eighteen*


.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE MOVES IN DISTINGUISHED COMPANY*

.. vspace:: 2

Sir Percival Lovelace gave a reception
in honor of the first appearance of Mistress
Bessie Dyke as Lydia Languish in a revival
of Mr. Sheridan's successful comedy "The Rivals."  So
sure was the baronet of his protégée's success that
some days previous to the date of the first performance
he publicly announced the function to be for the
purpose of extending to the winsome actress
congratulations upon the triumph he expected her to win.
Invitations to the reception were eagerly sought, and
correspondingly difficult to obtain, for Sir Percival
enjoyed an enviable reputation as a lavish entertainer.
The Prince himself promised to attend, for he found
amusement in the girlish piquancy of the little player's
conversation conspicuously lacking in the more
reverential prattle of the great ladies who owed their
presence in the upper circle of society to birth instead of
brains.  Even Mrs. FitzHerbert, once more on friendly
terms with the baronet, consented to honor the
assemblage with her presence, and all the other leaders and
lions of the world of wealth and breeding were favored
with invitations--that is, all except one.  Thomas
Moore, now at the height of his popularity, was
overlooked.  This was no surprise to the poet, for he
had not been deceived by Sir Percival's apparent
desire to overlook their past differences.  He felt
confident that the baronet would not rest content until
he had made every effort to undermine the popularity
which he had won as much by his personal charm as
by the merit of his poetry, yet, seeing no way in which
he could be successfully attacked by his old enemy, he
grew more confident as weeks passed with no visible
effort to injure his prosperity.

Sir Percival, however, was not losing sight of the
main object he had in view when he brought about
Bessie's journeying to London.  While he fully
intended to put an end to Moore's success eventually,
he had busied himself in the last few weeks more
particularly with his plans for bringing about the forcing
of the girl to do his will.  By skilful manipulation of
the various influences he was able to bring to bear upon
persons important in the administration of matters
in regard to the smaller dealings in the way of finance,
together with the fatuous confidence reposed in him
by Mr. Dyke, this ingenious gentleman succeeded in
obtaining the issuance of a warrant for the body of
the old rhymer in default of complete settlement of his
outstanding indebtedness.  This accomplished without
his intended victim being at all the wiser, he held
the document in readiness for his purposed attempt at
intimidation.  Now it was of course imperative, when
he should have kicked from beneath Robin Dyke the
props which at present held him above ruin as
exemplified in limitless incarceration in a Fleet Street
debtors' prison, that Thomas Moore should be in no
position to hold forth means of relief.  Such being the
case Sir Percival devoted himself to making all ready
for the disaster which he hoped and believed would
be the culmination of the young Irishman's social
career, availing himself in this matter of the advice and
services of his agent and mentor, Terence Farrell.
Success in all the preparations crowned his efforts to
a degree that would have seemed unusual even in a
better cause,--a state of affairs that led to much
cynical reflection as to the relative easiness of the
practices of philanthropy and its antithesis upon the part
of the gentleman from whom the impetus for the
plotted evil business was obtained.

This was the state of affairs on the evening of Sir
Percival's reception.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

Mrs. FitzHerbert regarded Mr. Sheridan with a
doubtful expression in eyes famed for their beauty
and innocence.

"Mr. Sheridan," she remarked, severely, "I am not
sure that Parliament is sufficient excuse for your
absence from Drury Lane to-night.  Everybody who is
anybody was present except the author.  Fie, sir!
Surely you should take enough interest in your own
play to witness its revival."

"Hum," said Mr. Sheridan, "I will promise not to let
even Parliament prevent my attendance at the theatre
when a play by you shall be presented, madame."

"Do you fancy, sir, that I am not capable of writing
a play?"

"Heaven forbid that I should declare any woman
incapable of anything in the world, possible or
impossible," replied the gentleman thus addressed.

"I am not sure that you intend that remark as a
compliment, sir."

"A woman should accept as complimentary all that
she is not absolutely certain is intended to be the
opposite."

"You would have women very conceited, Mr. Sheridan."

"If you mean, dear lady, that I would not change
the sweet creatures, you comprehend me perfectly,"
replied the old gentleman.  "Did you know,
Mrs. FitzHerbert, that our friend, Tommy Moore, has been
slighted to-night?"

"Indeed," asked the lady in a disappointed tone.
"I thought he would surely be here."

"Zooks," drawled a handsome gentleman who,
gorgeously attired and carrying himself with mannered
dignity, had joined the first-mentioned couple in their
corner.  "Moore not here?  What a bore!  I counted
on hearing him sing some of his ballads to-night.  I
am told he has a new one.  Some deliciously impossible
lyrical statement concerning the steadfastness of
the proper kind of love in the face of misfortune and
wrinkles.  Quite improbable, but delightfully
sentimental and imaginative."

"Put not your faith in princes, Brummell," quoted
Mr. Sheridan, knowingly, "that your days may be
longer in the land."

"A combination of scriptural sayings worthy of
their most unrespected quoter," laughed Mrs. FitzHerbert.
"Do you think a prince's passion could face
wrinkles?"

"In whose face?  His own or some one else's?"

"Some one else's face, of course, Mr. Sheridan."

"I spoke of the proper kind of love, dear madame,
not the improper," observed Brummell, languidly.

"And a prince's love?"

"For his princess impossible, for any other woman
improper," said Sheridan, looking away lest his shot
strike home.

"And why has Sir Percival cut Mr. Moore?"
demanded Mrs. FitzHerbert, giving Sheridan a
reproving tap with her fan.

"They are old rivals," replied the Beau.

"Would Sir Percival marry her, do you think?"

"No one can answer that question, Mrs. Fitz, but
Lovelace himself.  Shall I tell him you would like to
know?"

"Not for the world, Mr. Sheridan," she exclaimed.
"It is not my affair."

"If Percy is contemplating matrimony it will
surprise many who know him well," returned Brummell,
seating himself near by.  "But then he always was an
eccentric dog."

"They would never agree."

"Well," said Mr. Sheridan, "it is well known that
if the bride and the groom did not have their little
differences they would not care to marry."

"Ahem!  Have you read Mr. Rogers's new poem?"
asked the lady, skilfully changing the subject.

"'The Pleasures of Memory'?  Egad, I obtain
much more pleasure by forgetting," said Sheridan,
taking snuff.

"So the tradesmen say, Sherry."

"Well, George, I 've not heard of your discounting
your bills lately," retorted the elder man.

Just then Sir Percival approached them.

"As usual, the rallying place for wit and fashion
is at Mrs. FitzHerbert's side," said the baronet,
graciously.

"So you thought you would add beauty to the list
by coming yourself?"

"Nay, Sherry, I have heard it said there was never
a prettier gentleman than Richard Brinsley," said the
baronet.

"Who said that?  Your grandmother?" retorted
Sheridan.  "How is the old lady?"

"So you have neglected Mr. Moore?" whispered
Mrs. FitzHerbert, drawing her host to her side.  "Oh,
Percy, Percy, what a jealous creature you are!"

"Egad, you wrong me, Mrs. FitzHerbert; the one
being I have ever really envied as a lover is his
Highness."

"Mr. Dyke and Mistress Dyke," announced the footman.

Sir Percival went to welcome his guests, followed
by Sheridan and the others.  Bessie never looked
prettier.  The proud consciousness of her success gave her
a new confidence, and she laughed and quizzed it with
the witty throng assembled to celebrate her triumph as
brightly and merrily as though she had never moved
in any but the upper circle of society.  Mrs. FitzHerbert
mischievously told her of Sir Percival's intentional
neglect of Moore in the hearing of the gentleman,
and then, bubbling over with glee at the embarrassing
position in which she had placed him, sought safety
in flight on the arm of Farrell, who, quite dazzled by
the beauty's condescension, was already vaguely
meditating on his chances as a rival of the Regent.

"Are you angry, Mistress Bessie?" asked Sir Percival,
inwardly registering a vow to be even with the
Prince's favorite for the trick she had played him.

"Angry?" she repeated.  "What a question, sir!
Surely in your own house you have the privilege of
editing your visiting list?"

"You must know why I have done this," he said boldly.

"Why, Sir Percival?"

"Because I am jealous of the amorous looks he
bestows upon you, even if you do not return them.  I
wished to have you to myself to-night, so I have placed
it beyond Moore's power to interfere in his usual
impudent manner."

"You need not explain," Bessie said coldly, as a
servant approached.

"The Prince's carriage blocks the way," he
announced to his master.

"Good!" exclaimed Sir Percival.  "His Highness'
tardiness worried me.  I was afraid he was not
coming."

"His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales,"
announced the footman a moment later, "*and
Mr. Thomas Moore!*"

The Regent entered the room with his arm linked
in that of the poet, whose eyes, twinkling with
merriment, showed plainly his enjoyment of Sir Percival's
surprise and disappointment.

"Percy, I took the liberty of bringing Tom Moore
with me."

"Your Highness does not doubt that I am glad
to welcome any friend of yours," glibly replied Sir
Percival.

Then as the Prince, seeing Sheridan, ever a favorite
of his, turned away, the baronet said to Moore, a sneer
disfiguring his handsome face:

"Believe me, Mr. Moore, my house is honored."

"I believe you, Sir Percival," responded the poet,
promptly, "so that need not worry you."

"Nothing ever worries me, sir."

"Not even conscience, Sir Percival?"

"No, Mr. Moore," replied the baronet, as Wales
and Sheridan drew nearer.

"Ah, I see, conscience, like a powdered wig, is no
longer in style."

"Tut, tut, Tom," said Sheridan reprovingly.  "I
still cling to the old fashion."

Moore eyed the speaker's wig with tolerant eye.

"Faith, Sherry," said he, "brains such as yours are
an excuse for anything."

"Perhaps," said Sheridan.  "But it is a poor rule
that does n't work both ways, and surely you will not
have the temerity to assert that 'Anything is an excuse
for brains.'"

"In society who can doubt the truth of the statement?"

"It takes a sinner to be cynical," said Sheridan,
having recourse to his snuff-box.

"Then," said Moore, "what a doubter our greatest
dramatist must be."

"I have been described as a doubtful character
more than once," returned the old gentleman.  "Your
Highness, when you arrived we were discussing
matrimony."

"An amatory eccentricity," drawled Brummell, who
had joined the little group now surrounding the
Prince.

"The connecting link between bankruptcy and the
Bank of England," declared Sir Percival.

"The straight-jacket in which are confined couples
suffering from sentimental insanity pronounced
incurable by the church," said Moore.

"Ah," said Wales, "recovery is sometimes rapid,
nevertheless."

"Marriage is deceptive," said Mr. Sheridan, with a
sigh.  "Lovers go to church for a bridal and return
home to find they have been given a yoke."

"What would you suggest, Sherry?" asked the
Prince.  "Would you abolish matrimony?"

"I 'd make it a bill drawn on Divorce at say three
years' sight."

"I fear most couples would seek to discount the
bill," said Moore.

"You take it too seriously," said Brummell,
smothering a yawn.

"Is it supposed to be a joke?" asked Wales,
whimsically.

"Yes, your Highness, played on mankind for the
benefit of posterity," said Moore.

"Tut, tut, Tommy," said Sheridan reprovingly.
"You are too young to be such a scoffer."

"Indeed?"

"You young fellows are led astray by your own
importance, and soon begin to regard yourselves as
paternal achievements rather than maternal miscalculations."

A roar followed this sally of the elder Irishman, but
the younger was not to be so quickly defeated.

"And you old boys," said he, "make another mistake.
You regard yourselves as attractions long after
you have become ornaments."

"Personalities are to be avoided," returned Sheridan
good-humoredly.  "We were talking of marriage."

"Don't mention it," retorted Moore politely.  "It
is a queer thing at best.  Before a wedding a woman
has a husband to look forward to."

"And when married?"

"Faith, Sherry, a husband to look after."

"Imagine it, Brummell."

"Fortunately, your Highness, there are some limits
to my imagination," replied the Beau.

"Sentimentally but not sartorially speaking,"
observed Sheridan, scrutinizing the exquisite's lace
cravat through his eye-glass.  "'T is well to remember
that imagination is the thief of truth."

"You have dismembered marriage," said Wales,
smiling, "what of love?"

"Surely the subjects have nothing in common?"
cried Moore.

"The two together would be most uncommon," remarked
Sheridan.  "Love is the incidental music in
the melodrama of life."

"The sugar coating put upon the pill of sensuality by
the sentimental apothecary," retorted Moore.  "Love
is the devil, matrimony is hel--hem!--heaven."

"How do you know, Moore?" demanded the
Prince.  "You have never been married."

"I have never been to Hades, your Highness, but
I know it is hot just the same."

The verbal duel of the quartette ended in a shout of
laughter and the Prince, on the arm of Brummell,
strolled away in search of Mrs. FitzHerbert, while
Sir Percival and Sheridan sought the card-room,
leaving Moore to his own devices, a proceeding that suited
him exactly, as he had already caught a distant view
of Bessie, and was eager to be off in pursuit.

That young lady, guessing as much, took refuge in
a flight as skilful as it was apparently unstudied, and
Moore, hampered by the politeness he was compelled
to bestow upon his friends and admirers as he
encountered them on his pursuing stroll, found himself
at the end of half an hour no nearer the object of his
quest than at the beginning of the evening.  Just then
there came a request from the Regent that he should
favor the assemblage with one of his own songs, so,
inwardly chafing at the delay, he was compelled to
warble rapturously, not once but thrice, for his
good-nature was at par with his fellow guests' appreciation.

Having sung "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing
Young Charms," he followed it with the mournful
ditty, "She is Far from the Land," and finished with
"The Last Rose of Summer" by royal command, the
close of his efforts being received with a perfect storm
of applause that was as sincere as it was flattering;
but here the Prince interfered, and, vowing he would
not allow his gifted friend to strain his vocal cords,
publicly thanked Moore for the pleasure he had given
the assemblage.

Meanwhile, Sir Percival had not been idle.  Finding
a deserted nook the baronet, about an hour later, sent
a servant in quest of Farrell, and contentedly awaited
the young Irishman's coming, absorbed in pleasant
rumination on the probable happenings of the by no
means distant future.

"Oh, Terence," said he, rousing from his reverie
as the former entered, "is the poem printed?"

Farrell drew a copy of the *Examiner* from his
pocket.

"Here it is in the evening's issue," said he.  "Evidently
his Highness has not yet stumbled on it, though
every one else seems to have done so."

.. _`Tom Moore meets Bessie Dyke at Sir Percival's.`:

.. figure:: images/img-234.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Tom Moore meets Bessie Dyke at Sir Percival's.

   Tom Moore meets Bessie Dyke at Sir Percival's.

"Droll that the Prince should come here in the
author's company," said Sir Percival, scanning the
sheet, in the corner of which was the poem he had
purloined from Moore's garret.

"A propitious happening, sir," returned Farrell.
"I have not begun the circulation of the author's
name.  Is it the proper time, think you?"

"Not yet, my dear Terence.  Half an hour from
now will be quite soon enough.  Egad, these verses
sting, or I 'm no judge of satire.  When the Prince
does finally set eyes upon them there will be an
outburst.  A flood of anger will result on which the
writer of this masterpiece will be borne away to
oblivion."

"Moore is high in favor now."

"The higher the elevation the greater the fall,
Terence."

Farrell nodded.

"Our visit to his garret was a fortunate one.  But
for what we found there I fear Tom's position in royal
favor would be too firm for even you, Sir Percival,
to successfully assail.  May I ask the programme you
have planned in regard to Bessie?"

"It differs very little from the scheme we discussed
a fortnight ago.  Already the bailiffs are on post both
at the front and rear, waiting patiently to seize the
person of Mr. Dyke unless otherwise directed by my
humble self, which will only result from the girl's
compliance or the payment of the thousand her father owes
me.  I anticipate with their aid finding little difficulty
in persuading Mistress Bessie to go through the
marriage ceremony to-night.  Once this is accomplished
I'll take her on the Continent for a glimpse of Europe."

"You will marry her?" said Farrell in surprise.

"Not really, you fool," laughed his patron.  "Foreseeing
such a compromise as marriage, I have provided
a clergyman of my own manufacture.  Jack Hathaway
has kindly consented to assume the role for a liberal
consideration."

"That devil's bird," muttered Farrell.

"Aye, no angel child is Jack, but a gentler rogue
might not care to risk liberty to oblige a friend who
had found a difficult damsel."

"And where is this gallant rascal?"

"He, with the proper ecclesiastical caparisons ready
at hand, is waiting for my coming round the corner
a little way.  You see how confident I am that to-night
I will have my will."

"You think she will suspect nothing?"

"I rely on Jack's appearance to silence any vague
doubts that may haunt her gentle bosom.  Jack can
look most reverent.  Aye, and act it, too, if he be not
in his cups."

"You are a remarkable man, Sir Percival."

"At all events industrious," returned the baronet,
rising and putting the paper in his pocket.  "Come,
Farrell, our absence may be remarked.  Your arm."

Then, as these two very worthy gentlemen strolled
leisurely away, a little old man in a powdered wig all
awry in its set upon his clever old head, staggered out
from behind the portières screening the window recess,
and, balancing himself uncertainly as he stood, groaned
aloud at the impotence of his intoxicated brain.

The little gentleman was Mr. Richard Brinsley
Sheridan; the reason for his sudden impatience with
drunkenness being that he had heard every word of
the conversation between Sir Percival and his creature,
and now found his wine-drenched intellect unequal to
planning the proper course for him to follow to
checkmate the benevolent intentions of his host.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MR. SHERIDAN, MR. BRUMMELL, AND MR. MOORE HOLD COUNCIL OF WAR`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Nineteen*


.. class:: center medium

   *MR. SHERIDAN, MR. BRUMMELL, AND MR. MOORE HOLD COUNCIL OF WAR*

.. vspace:: 2

His Royal Highness did not at first succeed
in locating the lady who enjoyed so much
of his favor and admiration at this time.
Mrs. FitzHerbert took possession of Moore when a
servant informed Farrell of Sir Percival's wish to see
him, and, laughing mischievously, kept on the move
from one room to another, resolved that Wales should
make at least a fairly determined effort before he
obtained the pleasure of her company.  Finding a
secluded corner behind some palms in the conservatory,
she proceeded to catechise Moore in regard to his affair
with Bessie Dyke, at the same time keeping a sharp
look-out for the approach of the Regent.

"I 'll vow you were at Old Drury to-night, Mr. Moore,"
said she.

"Do you think that shows marvellous perception
on your part?" demanded the poet, lightly.

"What do you think of actresses?"

"I don't think of them, Mrs. FitzHerbert."

"Not of Bessie?"

"Never as an actress."

"Yet she is one, and clever too,"

"If I had my way she 'd never walk the boards after
to-night."

"But you have n't your way, Mr. Moore."

"Worse luck!"

"Oh, perhaps it is fortunate for Mistress Bessie that
you do not direct her destinies."

"I think no man enjoys seeing a woman he cares
for upon the stage."

"Fie, Mr. Moore.  A man should be proud of the
admiration accorded her if she be successful."

"There is no place half so fitting for a woman as
her husband's home.  No profession for her one
hundredth part so appropriate, so complete in happiness
and content as the care of her children."

"You are very old fashioned, Mr. Moore."

"True love is always old fashioned.  It is one thing
that has never changed an iota since the first man was
given the first woman to worship."

"Oh, dear," sighed Mrs. FitzHerbert, "you have
the morals badly this evening.  Mr. Brummell, I fear
your friend Tom is contemplating priesthood."

"Religion is an excellent thing to ponder on," said
the Beau, drawing near.  "It is so completely
non-exciting that much thought may be expended, thus
furnishing extensive intellectual exercise without
causing the nervous mental activity so completely
demoralizing to placid natures."

"Perhaps he means something by that procession of
words, Mrs. FitzHerbert," said Moore, doubtfully.
"We must not judge entirely by appearances."

"It is not impossible, I presume," replied Mrs. FitzHerbert,
apparently possessed of serious misgivings
upon the subject.

"Because the prattle of certain people is entirely
devoid of either sense or sentiment, it is not to be
concluded that the conversation of every one else is at so
completely a low ebb of mentality," remarked the
Beau, sententiously.  "Oh, Tommy, Tommy, why will
you tie your cravat in that horrible, horrible fashion?"

"It's like this, Brummell.  I 'm tired of following
your styles, so at present seek to set one of my own."

"Then I 'll quell your insubordination without
further delay," returned the Beau, laying skilful hands
on Moore's tie.  "A touch to the left, a twist to the
right, a pucker here, and a graceful fall of lace thus,
Thomas, and you are a credit to Ireland."

"Thanky," said Moore.  "If I look half as fine as
you do, George, I 'll need some one to see me home.
The ladies will never allow me to escape unkissed."

"A kiss in time saves nine," said Mr. Sheridan,
thickly, having approached unnoticed.  "I can't prove
it, but it sounds curst clever, at least after the second
bottle."

"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Fitz," said Brummell, languidly,
"his Highness is searching for you, or I misread
his behavior."

"If that is the case," replied Mrs. FitzHerbert,
smiling into existence the prettiest dimple in the world,
"there is only one thing for me to do."

"To hide, Mrs. FitzHerbert," suggested Moore,
who understood all women save one; at least it was
to this effect that he flattered himself.

"Really, Mr. Moore, you should have been born a woman."

"Not so," said the poet, "for then, like other women,
I should be blind to the good fortune of his Highness
in enjoying your ladyship's favor."

"But," said Brummell, pompously, "if you had
been a woman, Tom, *I* might have loved you."

"Egad, George, for the first time in my life I regret
my sex."

"I 've regretted m' sex all m' life," observed
Sheridan, swaying a trifle.

"And tried to drown all recollection in a crimson
tide, eh, Sherry?"

"Don't you be so f'miliar, Tommy.  I 'm not half drunk."

"Which half is sober, sir?"

"I am still in doubt 's to that, sir.  I think it's first
one half and then the other."

"You seem quite content, Mr. Sheridan."

"That, Mrs. FitzHerbert, is because I have made
myself familiar with Sir Percival's wine, and
familiarity breeds content."

Just then Mrs. FitzHerbert caught a distant view
of the Regent, and, seeing Sheridan was bent on
continuing to enjoy the society of his young
fellow-countryman, she took the arm of the Beau and hied
herself in the opposite direction, thus prolonging the
quest of her royal lover.

Once by themselves, Sheridan seized Moore's arm.

"Tommy," said he, "I 'm a drunken old reprobate."

"They say confession is good for the soul, Sherry,"
replied Moore, politely.

"But I 'm not such a rascal as s'm' others I know of."

"I hope you mean nothing personal?"

"Shut up, Tommy."

"Yessir," replied the gentleman thus admonished.

"Goo' boy, Tommy.  Now listen.  Having had a
drink or two or pos'bly three to be 'tirely frank,
Tommy, I 'cided to get a little air."

"I thought you had a little heir, Sherry."

"Y'r a fool, Tommy."

"I can't conscientiously deny it."

"Oh, H--l!" remarked the elder Irishman, "it's
too important to be so curst silly about."

"I beg your pardon," said Moore, contritely.
"Proceed."

"Where was I?"

"You were looking for air."

"So I was.  Well, so in I go to a room ver' little
frequented.  And there I raise a window and have a
shock, fo' outside I see quite plainly the ugly mug of
a bailiff.  A bailiff I 'm quite attached to f'r ole times'
sake.  'Shoo' old acquaintance be f'rgot,' and so forth.
Understan', Tommy?"

"Perfectly."

"So of course I think he is after me.  Understan'?"

"The presumption is quite natural."

"And bob back my head f'r fear he mi' see me.
Then down comes window on m' crown, tips my wig
over m' ear, and lays me out cold on the floor behind
the por'chers.  Understan'?"

"Very clearly, Sherry."

"Then when I become sens'ble, I hear voices outside
window recess in the room, Sir Percival and Farrell
having confidential chat.  Thass what I want tell you."

"Oh," said Moore, in sudden interest, "what were
they talking about?"

"Curst 'f I know now," said the dramatist, blankly,
all recollection of the important information he had to
convey suddenly obliterated.

Moore immediately waxed anxious.

"Think, Sherry, think!"

"I 'm too drunk to do anything but--"

"But what?"

"--but drink some more drinksh."

"Sit down here now and take things easily," urged
Moore, resolved to learn what had weighed so heavily
upon the old gentleman's mind.

"I 'm ver' thirsty," observed Sheridan, thoughtfully.
"Go' lump on m' head, Tommy.  Ver' dis'oblegin'
window, most inconsid'rate.  Almost scalped ven'rable
author of 'Schoo' f'r Scan'al.'"

"Now there are only two subjects on which Sir
Percival could converse that would interest me in the
least, Sherry."

"Two.  Thass ver' few f'r so clever a man as you,
Tommy.  I fear you lack ver'--ver'--vers'tility, m'
boy."

"The first subject is, of course, Bessie."

"Curst nice lil' girl," observed Sheridan, conscious
that the young lady spoken of was in some way
connected with the idea that had so suddenly vanished.

"The other is myself."

"Natura--er--rally so."

"Now of which of these did he speak?"

"Thass the question, Tommy," replied Sheridan
stupidly.

"Oh!" exclaimed Moore in disgust.

A flash of recollection stirred into new life by the
ejaculation illumined the face of the wit.

"Yesh, thass it.  Owe.  Thass it, Tommy."

Moore became imbued with new hope, but did not
hasten his inquiries as before, lest he should again
daze Sheridan's semi-somnolent memory.

"Owe?" he repeated.  "Some one is indebted to
Sir Percival, Sherry?"

"Thass it, Tommy."

"I wonder who it can be?  Of course you do not
remember, Sherry?"

"Yesh I do," asserted his companion.  "Itsh
Mr. Dyke.  He owes Sir Percival thoushand pounds."

"Good God!" exclaimed Moore, beneath his breath,
horrified at what he heard.

"The bailiffs I s'posed present in m' honor are here
to seize him if he don't return the moneysh to-night."

"What is the alternative the scoundrel offers?"
asked Moore, confident that the debt was merely a
weapon of intimidation.

"If Bessie marries him to-night he will let her
father off on his debt.  Otherwise he goes in limbo.
She 'll have to do it, m' boy.  He 'd die in Fleet Street.
Oh, Tommy, what a dirty scoundrel he ish!"

"Sherry," said Moore, gratefully, pressing the old
gentleman's hand as he spoke, "if I live to be a
thousand years old I 'll never cease to thank you with all
my heart for what you have done to-night."

"Thass all right, Tommy, thass all right.  We 're
both Irishmen," responded the dramatist.

As Sheridan spoke he opened the window and standing
beside it drew long draughts of the cool fresh
evening air into his lungs.  Moore sat quietly waiting
for his friend to regain the sobriety he knew would
not be long in returning, now that he had passed
through the muddled stage and emerged upon the
borders of ordinary intelligence.  Meanwhile he was
trying to evolve some plan to avert the danger
threatening his friends with such dire misfortune.  For the
aged poet to languish in the foulness of a debtor's
prison for more than a week would be to sign his
death-warrant.  The horrible condition of the places
of confinement consecrated to the incarceration of
gentlemen who involved themselves to an extent
beyond their ability to pay was one of the strongest
inducements that could be brought to bear by a creditor
to force to the settlement of long-standing obligations
a certain type of debtor--he who could pay if he
willed to make the sacrifice of personal convenience,
and to curtail the indulgences common usage made
the essential pleasures of the gay life of the sporty
young buck of the period.  For this reason more than
any other was the condition of these vile dens allowed
to go unimproved in spite of an occasional vigorous
protest from some noble but impoverished family
whose ne'er-do-well offspring was compelled to lie
indefinitely in squalor as new as it was repugnant to
his elegant sensibilities.  That Bessie would make any
sacrifice to keep her father from such a fate Moore felt
assured.  There was only one way to block Sir
Percival's game.  The money must be paid.  But how?
The returns from Moore's book had enabled him to
settle his debts in both Ireland and England, but, up
to this time, very little more than enough to accomplish
this result and support him as his new position
demanded had come from his publisher, McDermot.  It
was true that the sudden glow of enthusiasm usually
experienced by a bookseller after the publication of a
successful book had led the close-fisted and
stony-hearted old Scotchman to declare his willingness to
pay a generous sum in advance for a new poem, upon
an oriental theme, which Lord Lansdowne had
suggested to Moore, providing this bonus should give
him the exclusive right of publication for the term
of two years to all literary output from the pen
of the young Irishman.  However, Moore felt
confident that the sum McDermot would be willing to
pay to bind the bargain would be far less than the
thousand he required.  How, then, could he raise such
an enormous amount?

Sheridan, who was fast sobering, thanks to the
bracing air, closed the window with a shiver and
turned to his young friend.

"What will you do, Tommy?" he asked, only
a slight trace of his former thickness of tongue
perceptible.

"Do, Sherry?  I 'll have to raise the money."

"Have you it?" demanded the wit, regarding Moore
in amazement.

"Not I, Sherry.  It's taken all I 've earned so far
to pay my debts."

"Debts?" snorted Sheridan, contemptuously.  "Let
this be a lesson to you, Tom.  Never pay anything.  I
never do."

"You, Sherry?  Have you any money?"

"None, except what I have in my pockets," replied
Sheridan, hopelessly.  At this moment Mr. Brummell,
deserted by Mrs. FitzHerbert, and weary of the senseless
gabble so liberally dispensed by nine of every ten
females gracing social functions of magnitude,
wandered back into the conservatory in search of quiet.
Spying two of his closest cronies, he made haste to
join them.

"Here is the Beau," said Moore.  "Ah, George,
you have come just in time for the collection."

"Indeed?" said Brummell, curiously.  "Have I
missed the sermon?"

"Yes, but you are in time for the blessing, if you
have any money to lend a poor devil of an Irishman."

"Money," sighed the Beau, "is too vulgar for me
to long endure its possession, Tom."

"I am not joking, Brummell," declared Moore,
seriously.  "I need money, sir.  Every penny you can
let me have.  How much do you think you can raise
for me within the hour?"

Brummell, assured by Moore's manner that he was
not jesting, began to sum up his resources.

"I think," said he, hopefully, "that I can borrow
fifty pounds from my landlady, and I have a guinea
or two in my clothes."

"Fifty pounds," said Moore.  "And you, Sherry?"

The gentleman addressed had ransacked his pockets
and was rapidly counting out a handful of small coins.

"I have five shillings and sixpence," he announced.

Moore groaned.

"And I think," continued the old gentleman, "that
I can borrow five pounds from my valet if the rascal
is not in a state of beastly sobriety."

"And I 've not twenty pounds to my name," said
Moore, losing hope for the moment.

"Your name should carry more weight than twenty
pounds," returned Sheridan.  "Perhaps I can borrow
some from a stranger."

"But a stranger would not know you, Sherry,"
objected Brummell.

"But if he knew him he wouldn't lend him a penny,"
said Moore.  "Think of it, gentlemen.  What would
posterity say if it knew?  Beau Brummell, Richard
Brinsley Sheridan, and Tom Moore together cannot
raise one hundred pounds in a time of desperate need."

"What would posterity say?" sighed Brummell in
disgust.

"Oh, d--n posterity!" cried Sheridan.  "What
has posterity ever done for us?"

"Give it time, Sherry, give it time."

"That is one thing I am never short of, Tommy."

"May I, without impropriety, ask what is the
trouble?" inquired the Beau.

"A friend of mine is in danger, Brummell.  I must
raise one thousand pounds before dawn."

"A thousand pounds!" exclaimed Brummell,
horrified.  "Good Lord!"

Then, as the Beau had recourse to his scent-bottle
for the stimulation necessary to revive him from the
shock inflicted by Moore's words, the poet gripped
Sheridan by the arm in sudden hope.

"I 'll appeal to the Prince Regent himself, Sherry."

Sheridan shook his head in dissent.

"Tommy, boy, remember he is Sir Percival's intimate
friend."

"But his Highness likes me.  Surely he would
interfere?"

"Tom," said Brummell solemnly, "if there is a
woman in the case do not waste your time and exhaust
the patience of Wales.  His Highness is a greater
rake than Percy Lovelace ever dreamed of being."

"He would not see a woman so coerced," persisted
Moore.

"Remember, lad," advised Sheridan, "you are a
friend and courtier of only three months' standing.
Sir Percival has been Wales's companion since their
boyhood."

"Then God help us," said Moore in despair.  "There
is nothing I can do.  Stay!  I forgot McDermot.
He has asked me to write him an eastern romance
in verse and offered to pay liberally in advance."

"That old skinflint will faint at the thought of a
thousand pounds."

"It is my only chance, Sherry.  Where is the old
fellow?"

"I saw him in the smoking-room a few minutes
ago," said Brummell.  "No doubt you will find him
still there."

"I 'll not lose a moment," said Moore.  "It is a
forlorn hope, but he 'll find the hardest task of his life
will be to give me 'No' for an answer."

"But first, Tom," said Sheridan, wisely, "you must
see Mr. Dyke.  Perhaps it is not so bad a matter as
we think."

"You are right, Sherry," replied Moore, his spirits
recovering a little at the thought that, after all, the
danger might have been exaggerated.

But this desperate hope was not destined to be of
long life, for Moore found Mr. Dyke in a quiet nook,
crushed and despairing.  He had just left Sir Percival,
who in a few cold words had explained to the hapless
old man the terrible trap in which he had been caught.

"Take a half hour to think over my proposition,"
the baronet had said as he left the aged poet.  "When
that time has passed, acquaint your daughter with my
wishes.  She will do anything, even marry me, I feel
sure, to extricate you from your present predicament."

Moore listened in silence to his friend's story, and
when he had finished said:

"You have not told Bessie, sir?"

"Not yet, Thomas."

"Then do not tell her.  Let me settle with Sir
Percival.  I 'll find some way to beat him yet."

Leaving Mr. Dyke where he had found him, Moore
went in search of the publisher.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOM MOORE MAKES A BAD BARGAIN`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Twenty*


.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE MAKES A BAD BARGAIN*

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. McDermot raised his bald head as
Moore approached him in the smoking-room.
His keen, hatchet-shaped face was
framed on either side by a huge mutton-chop whisker
which was like nothing else half so much as a furze
bush recently sifted over by a snow-storm.  This
worthy gentleman regarded Moore with a keenness
that seemed to the poet to penetrate and to coldly
scrutinize his troubled mind, for Moore was ever a
poor hand at dissimulation and bore on his unusually
cheery countenance only too plainly the mark of the
mental anxiety he was now enduring.

"Weel, Mr. Moore, what can I do for ye, sair?"

"Sir," said Moore, trying to hide his eagerness,
"I have been thinking over the proposition you made
a week ago at the instigation of Lord Lansdowne."

"Weel, Mr. Moore?" repeated McDermot, realizing
at a single glance that the person addressing him was
much in need of something he hoped to obtain as the
result of this interview, and wisely concluding that
this something was money.

"You wished me to write a long poem, for which
you asserted you were willing to pay in advance, if
by so doing you secured the exclusive right to all
my work for the next two years."

"So I said, Mr. Moore, but that was a week ago,
sair.  However, continue your remarks."

"At that time I did not regard the matter favorably,"
continued Moore, "but since then I have changed my
mind.  I accept your offer, sir."

"Ah, do ye?  And what terms did I propose, Mr. Moore?"

"You named none, sir, but from the way you spoke
I fancied you would be agreeable to any reasonable
bargain I might propose."

"True, sair, true, but what is reasonable in one
man's eyes may weel be considered exhorbitant by
anither.  Ha' the kindness to name in figures,
Mr. Moore, what ye deem ye due."

McDermot spoke in his most chilling tones, indifference
ringing its baleful note in each word.  Moore's
heart sank, but he struggled bravely on with his
hopeless task, resolved not to even acknowledge the
possibility of defeat until failure absolute and crushing
should be forced upon him beyond all denying.

"I have decided to ask one thousand pounds in
advance, sir," he began, intending to name the royalty
he hoped to be paid upon each copy of the poem sold,
but the look he received from the grim old Scotchman
made him hesitate and falter with the words upon
his lips unspoken.

"One thousand poonds!" ejaculated McDermot,
terribly shocked, if the tone in which he spoke could
be regarded as a truthful indication of his feelings.
"One thousand poonds, Mr. Moore?  What jest is
this, sair?"

"Is it not worth it?" stammered Moore, the blood
rushing to his face.

"Worth it?  *Worth it*?  You must be mad, sair.
No publisher half sane would dream o' paying ye
half that in advance."

"Oh, come now," said Moore, trying to speak
unconcernedly, and scoring a wretched failure as a
result.

"I too ha' been considering the matter o' which
ye speak, Mr. Moore."

"You mean you wish to withdraw your offer, sir?"
cried Moore, in great alarm.

"That, Mr. Moore, is preecisely what I mean,"
declared McDermot, regarding the poet from beneath
his bristling brows.  "I ha' decided, sair, that I much
exaggerated ye popularity as well as ye talents.  This
determination, taken togither with the terms ye ha'
just suggested, leads me to wash my hands o' the whole
matter.  Find some ither pooblisher, Mr. Moore.
Try Longmans or Mooray."

"Mr. McDermot," said Moore, forcing himself
to speak calmly, thankful that the publisher and he
had the smoking-room to themselves, "if the proposition
I have made is unsatisfactory, pray suggest one
in your turn.  I will consider any you may see fit to
offer."

McDermot coughed a little and shook his shining
old head.  That Moore was in desperate need of money
was quite evident.  The wily old publisher had no
intention of allowing the most promising young poet
of the day to slip through his fingers, yet he was quite
resolved to take advantage of his extremity to drive
him to as desperate a bargain as could be obtained
by the craft which forty years of business life had
endowed him with in addition to his natural astuteness.

"No," said he, "I 'll not haggle wi' ye.  No doubt
there are ithers who will gi' ye what ye ask."

This last was said in a way that plainly stated his
sincere conviction that no one else would even
consider the matter.

"Oh, sir!" cried Moore, despairingly, "I have
relied upon this bargain."

"No fault o' mine, Mr. Moore, no fault o' mine, sair."

"Do you think I would ask you to reconsider your
words if I had any hope of obtaining the money in
any other quarter?"

"Where is Lord Brooking?  He should help ye
if ye ask him."

"Lord Brooking is on the Continent."

"Really, Mr. Moore, ye accomplish nothing by
this perseestance."

"Have you no heart, Mr. McDermot?"

"Weel, it has no voice in my business affairs, sair."

"If you will give me one thousand pounds to-night
and three hundred more during the year you shall
own and publish all that I write these two years."

"No, no, Mr. Moore."

"One hundred during the year and the thousand
pounds to-night, sir."

"Let us end this useless discussion," snarled
McDermot, rising from the easy chair he had occupied
until now.

"No," cried Moore, "you shall not deny me.  I 'll
give you a bargain you cannot refuse, sir.  Give
me one thousand pounds which shall be payment in
full for the long poem, and I will write when and
how you will for the next year at your own price.
Yes, I will do this and bless you for it.  Oh, sir, it
means more than life to me.  It is my whole future.
It's love, it's honor.  I beg that you will not use my
extremity to drive me to despair.  Surely my work is
worth as much as it was a week ago when you would
have gladly accepted such terms as I offer you now?"

"That is not the question," replied McDermot,
coldly.  "Ha' the goodness to get out o' my way,
Mr. Moore."

Moore seized the publisher by the arm.

"An old man's liberty, perhaps his life; the
happiness and good name of a mere girl depend upon
me, sir.  I have no other way of raising the money.
Have pity."

"I am sorry," began McDermot in cold, merciless
tones, but he got no farther.

"Then dictate your own terms, sir.  I must have one
thousand pounds.  For that sum I will bind myself
to anything you may propose."

"Ye mean that, Mr. Moore?"

"I do, sir."

"For one thousand poonds ye will gi' me, *without
further compensation*, the entire literary labor o' your
life, sair?  All that ye may write so long as ye live,
Mr. Moore?"

"Is that the best you will offer me?"

"That's all, sair."

"I accept your terms," said Moore in a choking voice.

McDermot sat down at a desk near by and wrote
out the check for the desired amount.

.. vspace:: 2

Moore, accompanied by Mr. Sheridan, went in
search of Sir Percival armed with the check made
payable to the order of the baronet by Mr. McDermot,
who immediately after drawing it went home to bed,
entirely satisfied with his evening's work.

The two Irishmen found Sir Percival idly chatting
with Mr. Walter Scott and that gentleman's most
intimate friend, Mr. Samuel Rogers, these two giants
being as usual surrounded by a circle of the lesser
lights in the world of literature.  Their host, seeing
that his company was evidently desired, excused
himself to his other guests, and the trio withdrew to a
secluded corner of the room.

"Sir Percival," said Moore, in reply to the baronet's
inquiring glance, "I have been informed by my friend,
Mr. Dyke, that he is indebted to you for the amount
of one thousand pounds."

Sir Percival allowed an expression of gentle
surprise to play over his clever face.

"It is quite true, Mr. Moore, but really I fail to
see how the transaction concerns you in the least."

"Perhaps your comprehension of the affair in its
entirety is quite as unnecessary as you seem to regard
the interest I feel in the matter," replied Moore, taking
the same key as his host.

"Will you pardon me if I ask the business in regard
to which you wish to see me?"

"Certainly, Sir Percival, I desire you to give
Mr. Dyke a receipt for one thousand pounds."

"Tut, tut!" said the baronet, as though slightly
irritated by the apparent silliness of Moore's request.
"I shall do nothing of the sort unless I am paid in
full."

"Allow me to pay you, sir.  Here are a thousand
pounds."

Sir Percival took the check from Moore, for once
astonished out of his usually indifferent demeanor.

"The devil!" said he.

"Yes, a publisher," replied Moore, with a wink
at Sheridan.  "Kindly write me out a receipt, Sir
Percival.  Sherry, you will witness this transaction?"

"Faith, that I will gladly," said the dramatist,
regarding Sir Percival's discomfiture with a humorous
twinkle in his keen old eyes.  "Damme, this is really
a joyous occasion for all concerned."

To say that Sir Percival was surprised would be
but to feebly express the feelings of that gentleman
when he received payment of the debt which he had
fondly hoped would be sufficient to gain his ends with
Mistress Bessie.  However, quickly rallying from his
momentary discomposure, he put the check in his
pocket.

"Believe me, gentlemen, I receive this with pleasure,"
said he, scribbling off a receipt with pen and ink
brought by a servant.

"Yes, I know how pleased you are," replied Moore,
politely.  Then taking the acknowledgment of liquidation
from the baronet, he carefully folded it before
depositing it in his wallet.

"Some day, Sir Percival, when the time comes for
us to make a settlement, I shall ask you for my
receipt," he said in a tone that there was no mistaking.

"When that time comes, Mr. Moore, you will find
me as eager and prompt as yourself," replied Sir
Percival.

Moore looked his enemy calmly in the face and read
there a courage fully the equal of his own.

"Egad, Sir Percival," said he, "for once I believe
you.  No doubt you will find it in your heart to release
the bailiffs from further attendance this evening?"

"Your suggestion is a good one, Mr. Moore,"
answered the baronet, smothering his rage.  "Carry to
Mr. Dyke my thanks and add one more to the list of
the many kindnesses for which I am already indebted
to you, sir."

Moore and Sheridan lost but little time in the
exchange of social amenities with their discomfited host.
The younger man sought the card-room, bent on
forgetting, for a while at least, the slavery into which he
had sold his pen; the elder picked up the temporarily
abandoned thread of his intoxication without further
delay.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE POET FALLS FROM FAVOR`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Twenty-One*


.. class:: center medium

   *THE POET FALLS FROM FAVOR*

.. vspace:: 2

About fifteen minutes elapsed before some
zealous courtier brought the poem in the
*Examiner* to the attention of the Regent, who
thereupon, forgetting the presence of Mrs. FitzHerbert,
who had allowed him to overtake her a few
minutes previous, swore with an ease and variety that
would have been a credit to the proverbial Billingsgate
seller of fish.  As the rage of Wales was not of
the repressed order, the voice of royalty raised high
in anger drew about him a crowd of courtiers who
had been eagerly expecting such an outbreak all the
evening.

"Sir Percival!" cried the Regent, catching sight
of the baronet in a distant corner where Farrell and
he were enjoying the tumult consequent on the
culmination of their plot.  "Have you seen this devilish
set of verses?"

"I regret to say I have, your Highness," responded
the baronet both shocked and grieved.

"It is infamous!" stormed Wales.  "Gad's life! it
is intolerable.  I devote my best efforts to my
country's service only to be foully lampooned in the public
Press.  Why, curse me--!"

"Your Highness, calm yourself, I beg of you,"
said Mrs. FitzHerbert, soothingly, but the Prince was
not to be so easily restrained.

"Calm, indeed?" he shouted.  "Calm, when such
damnable insults are written and printed?  Not I,
madame."

"Rise superior to this malicious attack," persisted
the beauty, little pleased that her influence should fail
so publicly.  "Remember your greatness, sir."

"A lion may be stung into anger by a gadfly,
madame," retorted Wales, growing even more furious.
"Brummell, have you read this infernal poem?"

"Not I, your Highness," replied the Beau, who,
accompanied by Moore, had forsaken the card-table
at the first outburst of royal wrath.

"Then do so now," commanded the enraged Regent,
thrusting the paper into his hands.

Brummell ran his eyes hurriedly over the verses,
while Wales continued pacing up and down the now
crowded room in unabating fury.

"I saw them earlier in the evening, your Highness,"
said Sheridan, unable to keep his oar out of the
troubled waters.

"Oh, did you, indeed?" demanded Wales.  "And
no doubt chuckled like the devil over them?"

"Your Highness!" said the aged wit, trying to
speak reproachfully, in spite of an internal laugh that
threatened to break out and ruin him.

"I believe you are quizzing me now if the truth
were known," asserted the Prince, wrathfully
suspicious.  "If I am not mistaken, these lines sound
marvellously like the work of your pen, sirrah."

"On my honor you wrong me, Sire," declared Sheridan,
in a tone so unmistakably truthful that Wales
could not doubt his entire innocence.

"May I not see the poem, Mr. Brummell?" asked
Dyke, who had just entered the room.

The Beau obligingly handed over the paper to the
old gentleman.  As the old rhymer turned away,
Moore looked over his shoulder and, scanning with
eager eyes the page in quest of the satire which had
so enraged the Regent, found it before the elder man's
less keen sight had performed a like service for him.
Moore turned sick with horror and clutched the
nearest chair for support.  How had the verses found their
way into print?  Dyke was ruined if it were proved
that he wrote them.  Bessie, too, would feel the weight
of the Regent's displeasure, and without doubt would
be deprived of her position at Drury Lane for her
father's additional punishment.  He had saved them
from one disaster only to see them plunged hopelessly
into another almost as dire.

A groan from the unhappy author announced that
he, too, had recognized his poem.  The next moment
he turned on Moore with a look of despair on his
usually placid face.

"Tom," he whispered, "you have ruined me.  My
poem is printed.  Oh, Tom, how could you?  How
could you?"

"Surely you do not believe that I gave it to the
Press?" said Moore, hoarsely, stung to the heart by
the accusing look he read in his old friend's eyes.

"Who else could have done it?  I gave you the only
copy three months ago."

"I remember, sir.  Ah, I can explain it.  I left my
garret in the afternoon and went for a stroll.  When
I returned home I found Sir Percival and Farrell
there.  Since that day I have never thought of it.
They have done this, Mr. Dyke."

"I do not believe you," answered Dyke in a voice
so scornful and suspicious that Moore felt as though
he had received a blow in the face.

Meanwhile Wales's anger had not cooled in the
least.

"Egad!" he was saying, "if I but knew the author's name!"

"There is still a chance, Mr. Dyke," whispered
Moore.  "Deny all knowledge of the matter.  Swear
you did not write it if necessary."

"Is it impossible to learn the identity of the writer?"
asked Brummell seriously.

"Impossible?" repeated Wales.  "Of course it is
impossible, Beau!  You do not think he will
acknowledge this slander as his own, do you?"

"It does seem unlikely," admitted the exquisite.

"So unlikely," snorted the Prince, "that I 'd give
a thousand pounds to find the rascal out."

Farrell, spurred on by a nudge from the elbow of
his patron, stepped forward.

"Your Highness," said he, calmly, "I accept your offer."

Wales gazed at the dapper young law student in
surprise.

"You know the author of this attack upon me, sir?"
he asked.

"I do," answered Farrell, firmly.

Moore, resolved to anticipate and if possible
prevent the accusation of Dyke which he felt sure was
about to follow, stepped hurriedly forward.

"One moment, your Highness," said he.  "Do you
know this gentleman?  He is a liar, a blackleg, and
a coward, unworthy of your Highness' belief or
consideration."

"Curse you," began Farrell, white to his lips with
shame and passion, but Moore did not allow him to
finish.

"I struck him in Ireland, yet he never resented my
insult.  Think, your Highness, is such a poltroon
worthy of belief?"

"Sire!" stammered Farrell.

"Damn your private quarrels!" roared Wales,
turning on Moore.  "Have I not my own wrongs
to resent, that you must annoy me with yours now?"

"He will lie to you as he has to others, Sire," replied
Moore, refusing to be silenced.

"That remains to be seen, sirrah."

Sir Percival stepped out of the throng surrounding
the angry Prince, smiling and debonair as usual.

"I will answer for the truth of any statement
Mr. Farrell may make, Sire," said he.

"Continue," growled the Prince, waving Moore
back with an impatient gesture.

"Your Highness," said Farrell, quick to take
advantage of his opportunity, "the author of this vile
attack upon you is one of your friends, a favorite
protégé, who, owing all to your favor, thus rewards
your kindness by base ingratitude.  To your Highness
he owes everything; thus he repays you."

"His name?" demanded Wales.

There was a moment's pause, during which silence
reigned, as Farrell artfully hesitated in his reply that,
thus delayed, it might fall with even more crushing
effect upon the object of his hatred.  Short as was the
time, it sufficed for Moore.  Convinced that this was
the only opportunity which would be afforded him to
avert the disaster he believed to be about to overtake
the father of the girl he had loved so truly and
patiently, he resolved not to let it pass unutilized.

"I wrote that poem," he cried.  "I am the author
whose name your Highness would know."

"You, Moore?" gasped the Prince, astonished by
what he had heard.

Dyke made a move forward, but Moore gripped his arm.

"For Bessie's sake," he whispered.  "Now do you
believe me?"

"But, Tom--"

"Hush, sir," said Moore, thrusting Sir Percival's
receipt into Dyke's hand.  "Read that, and be silent
if you love your daughter."

Wales, pale with fury, had stood for a moment in
utter silence.  Then, as he recovered speech, his voice
sounded hoarsely, but under perfect control.

"Sir Percival," he said slowly, "call a carriage for
Mr. Moore."

Turning to Mrs. FitzHerbert, he offered her his
arm, and with her at his side walked deliberately from
the room.  Sir Percival started toward the door, a
triumphant smile upon his sneering mouth, but Moore
stopped him, and for a moment the two stood face to
face.  Suddenly the desperate expression left the
countenance of the poet, and he smiled as gayly as though
he had just received from the Prince a mark of esteem
instead of a disgraceful dismissal.

"You heard his Highness' order, my man?"

He seemed to be addressing a servant, if one could
judge from the tone in which he spoke.

"Then call my carriage, lackey!"

"Lackey!" cried Sir Percival, red with rage at the
insult, thus forced upon him.

"Aye, lackey," repeated Moore, defiant and
sneering in his turn.  "And here is your pay!"

As he spoke, he struck the baronet a stinging slap
in the face; then turned and strolled elegantly from
the room.

.. vspace:: 2

Thus it was that Mr. Thomas Moore quitted the
world of Fashion, which but a scant three months
before he had entered in triumph by grace of the favor
of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOM MOORE RECEIVES A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE`:

.. class:: center large

   Book Four

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: noindent

   |   "*If every rose with gold were tied,*
   |     *Did gems for dewdrops fall,*
   |   *One faded leaf where love had sighed*
   |     *Were sweetly worth them all.*"

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Twenty-Two*

.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE RECEIVES A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE*

.. vspace:: 2

The morning after his enforced but by no
means inglorious departure from Sir
Percival's house, Mr. Thomas Moore met his
disgruntled host near the Serpentine in Hyde Park, but
the duel was productive of little satisfaction to either
of the parties concerned, as Moore, never having held
a pistol in his hands before, missed his antagonist by
at least ten feet, receiving in return a bullet that sang
a melody new to him as it clipped its way through his
hair.  Sir Percival's honor was declared vindicated,
as his having made a target of himself for Moore's
shooting was considered to totally erase all stain put
upon his personal character by the vigorous slap he
had received from the poet.

Moore escaped unhurt, though minus a few locks
of hair,--a loss which was not without significance
as an indication of Sir Percival's good intentions.
The young Irishman was naturally convinced that at
this particular game he was no match for his sneering
enemy, and considered himself lucky to have escaped
with his life, an opinion that was shared by both Sir
Percival and Terence Farrell, for the baronet was an
expert marksman, and had never doubted that he
would end all rivalry between himself and Moore with
the bullet he aimed at his opponent that morning.
However, his opportunity to so rid himself of his rival
had come and gone, for he was far too wise to
endeavor to force another quarrel upon Moore, even
though the latter had fallen from favor, for more than
one harsh criticism was made on the unequal nature
of their encounter.  Sir Percival's skill was widely
known, and a no less deservedly popular individual
than Mr. Sheridan took pains to circulate the truth
concerning Moore's shortcomings as a pistol shot.
Even his Highness saw fit to remark to the baronet
that it was "a demned one-sided affair," and that Sir
Percival's reputation, had he killed Moore, might have
become "even a little more unsavory," comments which
led the latter to doubt the permanency of the poet's
disgrace and exile, but, as he kept these suspicions to
himself, by the world in general Tom Moore was
considered a ruined man.

On returning from their meeting in Hyde Park in
the early morning, Moore discreetly abandoned his
comfortable apartments, and, in spite of the protests
and lamentations of Mrs. Malone, resumed the
occupancy of the shabby attic from which the Prince's
kindness had a few months before rescued him.

"No," said Moore, determinedly, to his landlady.
"I 'm out of favor now and I 'll be saving of my
pennies till I 'm righted again, if that shall ever be,
which God knows and I 'm ignorant of, worse luck."

Buster and Lord Castlereagh moved up the several
flights between the poet's latest and earliest
abiding-places with their master, and seemed actually glad
to be back in their old quarters.  Their cheerfulness
could be easily accounted for.  Rat-holes were an
unknown commodity on the first floor, though numerous
in the attic, and the dignity of behavior Buster thought
incumbent on him to assume in honor of rising fortune
had proved irksome in the extreme to that worthy youth.

Leaving the lad to attend to the details of the
removal, Moore, after signing his contract with
McDermot, sought the soothing comforts of the country,
as was his custom when in trouble, and hied himself
to a little fishing village not far distant.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

One afternoon a week later Buster was seated in his
favorite attitude, his chair tipped back on its rear legs
and his feet, considerably higher than his head,
supported by the table, idly contemplating the daily mail
which had just been delivered.

There were only two letters.  Up to the time of the
withdrawal of Wales's favor, there were usually a score
or so calling for the poet's inspection each day, but
the reprimand of the week before had had immediate
effect upon Moore's correspondence, and while
numerous of his more intimate friends remained loyal
throughout the whole period of his disgrace, there
were many others only too prompt to show the utter
shallowness of their pretence of regard by immediately
abandoning him to what they believed would be
permanent ruin.

One of the two letters in Buster's possession had a
plump outline that seemed to indicate an inclosure of
some bulk.  This had the name of the *Gazette* printed
upon it.  Buster shook his head disgustedly.  The size
of the missive seemed ominous.  The other letter was
neutral in impression-giving.  It might hold a check,
or it might announce the return of a manuscript under
separate cover, but it certainly did possess possibilities.

Buster sighed and, as was his wont, addressed
himself to the bulldog, who from the window was
solemnly contemplating the passing throng on the
street below.

"That's a nice mile for a poet hof the maggietood
hof Mr. Moore, haint it, your lordship?  Cuss 'em,
they thinks we is down to st'y, don't they?  Well,
we 'll show 'em a thing hor two before we gets
through."

The bulldog regarded his master admiringly over his
brawny shoulder, and switched his butt of a tail
vigorously back and forth upon the floor.  This manoeuvre
sent fluttering a bit of paper that lay near him, and
Lord Castlereagh, becoming immediately persuaded
that he had a butterfly within easy reach, leaped
vigorously in pursuit.

"You 're a fool," remarked Buster, as the animal
scuttled across the floor in delighted chase of the
paper.  Then, waxing philosophical, he continued,
"Hit wuz hever thus.  We wacks hup suthin' with
hour tiles that flies, hand we thinks hit his fime and
fortune, hand pursoos hit only to find hout we 'as
bilked hourselves wid a kimming-reror hor fast fiding
plant-has-me-goryer."

Absurdly satisfied with himself for having rid his
mind of such important and many-jointed words
successfully, Buster began to whistle, playing a merry
tune more or less reminiscent of "Sally in Our Alley"
on an instrument which his master had presented to
him the first week of their acquaintance.  This was
none other than the whistle that Moore had made the
very afternoon on which he quarrelled with Bessie at
the schoolhouse,--a bit of manufacturing he had
often since regretted, for Buster had treasured it
carefully, and was much given to using it for shrill
improvisation, as well as careful rendition of the various
airs then popular with the masses, finding it particularly
adapted to the high notes of "The Last Rose of
Summer," then in the heyday of its success.

Suddenly he felt his chair tip backward in a manner
quite unwarranted by the care with which he was
maintaining a delicate balance, and jumped to his feet
with a loud yell, finding himself, when he turned, face
to face with Mrs. Malone, who had entered unnoticed,
the sound of her heavy tread being drowned by his
melody.

"Fur goodness' sike!" he exclaimed wrathfully,
"you must n't do sich rambunctious things, hole
woman.  You just scared me houter seven years'
growth hand I can't hafford to lose no sich hamount."

"Niver mind thot," replied the landlady.  "It's
many the fright you 've given me, you little tinker.
Is Mr. Moore back from the country?"

"See 'ere, his n't the rent pide?" demanded Buster.

"Av course it's paid," replied Mrs. Malone, scornfully.
"D' ye t'ink I have no t'oughts at all but about
me rint?"

"Well," confessed Buster, "once hupon a time, hit
sorter looked has 'ow you wuz bestowing considerable
medication hupon that topic.  Hif hit did n't, bli' me,
that's hall, just bli' me."

"Is Mr. Moore back from the country?" repeated
Mrs. Malone.

"Yes, your Majesty," replied the boy, with a low
obeisance.  "'Ee his.  'Ee returned this werry noon
from the 'onts hof nachoor."

"It is just a week since he wint away," observed
Mrs. Malone, reflectively.

"'Ow does yer keep count?" asked Buster,
surprised at the accuracy of her remark.

"Faith, thot 's an easy mather," she answered,
sagely.  "Has n't Misthress Dyke called to see him
sivin times?"

"She 'as, your 'Ighness, she 'as."

"That's once for each day, and siven days makes
a week, does n't it?"

"Hi never wuz a good 'and hat arithmetic, but Hi
'as faith in the correctness of your calculation,"
responded Buster.

"Siven times has she called and so disapinted each
time that he has n't returned.  Did yez give her his
adthress?"

"Hi did not, coz has 'ow Hi expected 'im 'ome
hevery day.  Hit 'll do 'er good, Mrs. Malone.
Disappointments is disciplinationary, hand disciplination
his wot womens need.  Hit mikes 'em contented like.
Oh, Hi tells yer, Mrs. Malone, my wife 'll be han 'appy
female.  She'll 'ave a master, she will."

Mrs. Malone gave the boy a vigorous push that sent
him staggering, and as Lord Castlereagh neglected to
get out of the way, boy and dog suddenly assumed
recumbent and by no means graceful attitudes upon
the floor.

"Arrah, get out o' thot," she remarked, complacently
viewing the disaster she had wrought.

"My heye!" said Buster, in an astonished tone,
"wot his this hany 'ow?  His hit according to London
prize ring rules, hor just knock down hand drag
habout till death do hus part?"

"Give me no more airs, you little puckorn.  The
size of yez, talking about the holy state of
matrimony!" said Mrs. Malone, rebukingly, as Buster
climbed up to his feet, slightly jarred by the force
with which he had taken his seat.  "Did yez tell
Mr. Moore that the young lady called?"

"No, Hi did not, Mrs. Malone, you hinquisitive
ole party."

"Why not, me bucko?"

"Coz Hi wishes to surprise 'im, that's w'y," said
the boy defiantly.  "Hand hif you lays 'and hon me
agin, Hi 'll 'ave Lord Castlereagh bite you good hand
'arty where it 'll do you the most good hand be the
least missed."

"Niver mind thot."

"Hi won't hif you won't, Hi 'm sure, Mrs. Malone,
and as for the young lidy, she has n't been 'ere to-day,"
said Buster.

"Oh, never fear," returned Mrs. Malone.  "Shell
come, and it's glad I am that he 's back agin."

"W'y?  Did you miss 'im?"

"Niver mind.  It's the young leddy I 'm tinking
of.  Faith, suppose she got discouraged and stopped
a-coming?"

"That 'ud show she was n't worth 'aving," replied
Buster wisely.  "Now see 'ere, Mrs. Malone, w'en
she comes Hi wants you to let 'er hup widout hany
announcement.  Does you 'ear?"

"Oh, I hears, but for phwat should I do that, Mr. Buster?"

"You just leave it to me, your 'Ighness.  Hi knows
how these haffairs should be conducted."

"Oh, yez do, do yez?" said Mrs. Malone in a derisive
tone, as she ambled toward the door.  "It's in
an orphan asylum yez ought to be."

"Not hat all," retorted Buster.  "Hi 'as no time
to waste hon 'aving horphings."

The worthy landlady met Moore in the hall as she
quitted his apartments, and overwhelmed him with the
heartiness of her welcome, but, mindful of Buster's
instructions, said never a word concerning the visits
of Mistress Dyke.  Moore, having made as speedy an
escape as was possible without wounding the old
woman's feelings, entered the attic, being received with
much doggish delight by Lord Castlereagh, who
seemed to ignore the fact that he had ceased to be a
puppy several years before.

"Good hevening, Mr. Moore," said Buster politely,
about to deliver the post to his master.

"Good evening, *Montgomery*," replied Moore,
severely, drawing off his gloves.

"Montgomery?" echoed the boy, thoroughly disgusted.
"Ho, don't call me that, sir, please don't."

"Well, that's your name, isn't it?"

"Ho, Hi knows hit, alas!" said Buster, in an
injured tone.  "Hi knows hit only too well.  Wen Hi
wuz too little to defend myself w'en put hupon, my
hole woman hup and christens me Montgomery Julien
Hethelbert, hand 'itches hit hon to the family nime hof
Spinks."

"Montgomery Julien Ethelbert--"

"*Spinks*.  Yes sir, that's hit.  Wuz n't that a crime?
That's wot stunted my growth, most likely."

"It seems plausible," observed Moore, in secret
vastly amused.

"Yes, hit do," continued the boy, sadly.  "Say, sir,
won't you allus call me Buster?"

"No, sir," responded Moore, sternly.  "You were
fighting again this afternoon.  As punishment for
your pugilistic propensities I refuse to call you Buster
again to-day."

"Ho, law!" exclaimed Buster, "but this 'ere punishment
is horful.  We wuz honly 'aving a gime, sir,
just playin' like."

"Indeed?  I happened to see you myself this time.
I won't have you half killing the neighbors' children
that way."

"You saw me?  Oh, Hi say, was n't that a helegant
gesture w'en I soaked 'im hon the nob?  Did n't Hi do
'im hup brown, eh?  Hand that jolt hin the bread-basket
wid my left fisty.  Ho, that cert'nly wuz a pet!"

"Montgomery Julien," began the poet, severely.

The lad wilted.

"Ho, don't, sir, don't.  Hit makes me *that* fretful,"
he said pleadingly.  "Hi 'll reform, really Hi will."

"Do so, then," said Moore.  "And remember, if
I ever hear of your fighting again, I 'll never call you
anything but Montgomery."

"Yessir," replied Buster, with a low bow.  "Hi
'ears, hand to 'ear his to hobey.  Hi retires from the
prize ring to-day, hand my champeenship Hi resigns
to the red-'eaded butcher boy hacross the w'y.  'Ere 's
the post, sir."

Moore took the two letters from the lad and sat
down beside the table to examine them.

"From publishers, h'aren't they?" said Buster
interestedly.

Moore nodded.

"That they are, lad," he answered, opening the first
as he spoke.  "Ah, here is an inclosure."

"Hinside?" asked Buster, eagerly.

"Where else?" demanded the poet.  "Did you think
it would be wrapped around the outside?  From the
*Gazette*.  One pound.  Good.  A pound is better than
ten shillings any day."

"Ha munth hagow hit 'ud 'ave been ten pun," said
Buster, shaking his round head.

"But it's nine well lost," answered Moore, adding
to himself, "aye, well lost, since it is for Bessie's sake."

He found a note inside and read it aloud.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent smaller

   "MR. THOMAS MOORE--

.. class:: smaller

   "DEAR SIR,--Inclosed find one pound in payment for your
   poem, 'Inconstancy,' which, owing to your present unpopularity,
   we feel compelled to print under the name Thomas Little."

.. vspace:: 2

"Hi likes their imperence," cried Buster in disgust.
"'Little,' indeed!"

"That accounts for the size of the check, no doubt,"
observed the poet.  "Two days ago it was 'Tom
Brown;' next week it will be 'Tom Green' or 'Tom
Fool.'  However, it does n't matter if Tom Moore gets
the money."

"Hi 'll let 'em use my nime," suggested the lad in
noble self-sacrifice.  "My folks his all dead, so the
publis'ty won't kill 'em.  Montgomery Julien
Hethelbert would look grite hin print."

"I quite agree with you," said Moore, laughing.
"Ah, Buster, me boy, it's sweet to be back in the old
place.  I 'd not give it, bare and ugly as it is, for one
of the fine places I 've wined and dined in since leaving
it, if Bessie were only here to brighten it for me."

Buster looked around him comprehensively.

"Hit does need cleaning hup a bit," he said
apologetically.  "Hi 'll see wot Hi can do to-morrer."

"And you say there has been no letter for me from
her?" continued Moore.

"Not one letter, sir," replied Buster.

"And you have n't seen her, Buster?"

The boy gave a yell of pain, and slapped his hand
to his face, at the same time executing a double shuffle
with his feet.

"What ails you, lad?"' asked the poet in astonishment.

"My toot' haches me," explained Buster, who had
invented this complaint by way of diverting his
master's inquiries.

"Fall in love, Buster," advised Moore, "and the
pain in your heart will make you forget the pain in
your tooth."

"Hit's better now, sir," announced the boy, jubilant
that he had kept his master from all knowledge of
Mistress Dyke without real denial of her visits.

"Now for the other letter," said Moore.

This was the bulky package.  Buster's suspicions
that it inclosed a disappointment proved not
unfounded, for there was a manuscript poem folded
within.

"Humph," grunted Moore, scornfully.  "What bad
taste they display.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent smaller

   "'MR. THOMAS MOORE--

.. class:: smaller

   "'DEAR SIR,--In view of your present unpopularity--'

.. vspace:: 2

Oh, I hate that d--n word, Buster."

"Hit is a bit narsty," assented the boy.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

   "--we feel obliged to return your poem entitled 'To
   Bessie.'"

.. vspace:: 2

"Confound them!"

Unfolding the poem, Moore ran his eye over its
neatly written lines.

At this moment the door behind him opened softly,
and Bessie crept in as quietly as any mouse.  Buster
saw her, and, leaning over the table, asked his master
to read him the rejected verses.

"Certainly, Buster, since you wish it," said Moore,
good-naturedly.  "It will help on your literary
education."

"That hit will, sir," said Buster, stepping where he
could motion Bessie to remain silent without being
detected by his master.

"'To Bessie,'" announced Moore, beginning to
read, little thinking that the girl was so near.

   |   "Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare,
   |     Life's cup before me lay,
   |   Unless thy love were mingled there
   |     I 'd spurn the draught away.
   |
   |   "Without thy smile the monarch's lot
   |     To me were dark and lone,
   |   While, with it, even the humblest cot
   |     Were brighter than his throne.
   |
   |   "Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs
   |     For me would have no charms,
   |   My only world thy gentle eyes,
   |     My throne thy circling arms."
   |

Suddenly a pair of soft round arms were around his
neck, and the poem he had just read with such love
and tenderness was plucked from his grasp without
warning.

Moore sprang to his feet with a low cry of surprise.

"Bessie," he said, incredulously.  "You?"

"Don't you know me?" she asked with a little pout,
as Buster, followed by the bulldog, stole discreetly
from the room.  "Have you forgotten how I look so
soon?"

"Forgotten?" he echoed.  "Is it likely, Bessie?"

"You seem surprised to see me."

"I can't deny that," he answered in wonder.
"Forgive me if I ask to what I am indebted for this
visit?"

"Oh," said Bessie, indifferently, "I came to see if
you have written any more poems about the Prince.
Tom, how could you do it?  He was so fond of you."

"That may be," replied Moore, assuming a dignified
air, "but I can't let friendship interfere with
my politics."

"Then it was your duty, Tom?"

"It was my duty," he answered, gloomily.

"I think you were unpardonable," said the girl.

"I see," replied Moore, "you came to reproach me,
Bessie."

"What a deceitful fellow you are," she went on,
shaking her pretty head in a sad way.

"I am," admitted the poet.  "I am.  Go on, Bessie,
don't spare me."

She advanced a step or two as he, at a loss to
understand why she was thus baiting him, turned bitterly
away.

"I can't spare you," she said sternly.

"So it seems," he murmured, not looking at her,
lest the sight of her girlish beauty make the pain in his
heart too great to be endured.

"I can't spare you," she repeated, "I can't spare
you," but this time her tone was one of loving
tenderness and he turned to look at her in surprise.

She was standing with outstretched arms, her face
eager and adoring, the old light shining soft and clear
in her eyes.

"Without you, Tom, there is no happiness for me.
Tom dear, Tom darling, can't you see I 've come here
because I love you?"

"What?" he exclaimed, and then, mindful of past
disappointments, he raised his hand imploringly.
"You are sure you are not joking this time?"

"Joking?" she repeated, advancing toward him.
"Let this assure you."

As she spoke she kissed him full on the mouth, not
once but thrice.

"Now are you convinced I am in earnest?" she
asked shyly.

"Partly," he replied, still unable to fully realize that
she had surrendered at last.  "Convince me some
more, Bessie."

Then as she kissed him again, he folded her in his
arms and held her to his heart so tightly that she
released herself with a little gasp.

"Please remember, sir, that I have to breathe," she
remonstrated.

"I forgot everything, except that I had you in my
arms," he answered.  "Ah, Bessie darlin', my heart
was breaking for you.  I love you so much, dearest."

He embraced her again, and pressed her soft cool
cheek to his, and it must be admitted she appeared to
enjoy this proceeding as much as he did.

"Sure," he whispered, "if heaven is half as sweet
as this let me die to-morrow."

"You took the blame to save my father.  Oh, Tom,
I 'll never forgive you."

"Keep on not forgiving me," he suggested, for she
had given him another kiss.

"I made him tell me," said she, complying with his
request before sitting down by the table, "but the next
day you had gone."

"I know," said Moore, "I went out into the country.
It helped me, as it always does.  It comforted me, but
not as you have done."

"And while you were gone I came here every day
to see if you had returned."

"What is that?" he demanded.  "You came here,
dearest?"

Bessie nodded gleefully.

"I did not miss a day, not even Sunday," she said.

"That little devil of a Buster!" cried Moore,
glaring around the attic in quest of him.  "The imp!
Wait till I lay my hands upon him!"

"He didn't tell you, Tom?"

"Not a word.  If I had known, it is no sight of me
the trees and the fields would have had."

Bessie rose from her chair, and stepping back a little
distance, looked archly at her lover.

"Have you forgotten what you said?" she asked.

"Since I don't remember, I think I must have,"
said Moore puzzled.

"Then I 'll tell you, sir."

"That's good of you, Bessie," said he.

"You told me I would have to ask you to marry
me," she answered, a little timidly.  "Tom dear, I
love you; will you be my husband?"

"This is so sudden," said Moore, and he sat down
in the chair she had vacated.

"What is your answer, Tom?" she asked, almost
anxiously.

"I 'll have to be wooed further before I give it,"
he declared, keenly relishing the situation.

"I 'll do it," she murmured.  "I 'll do it.  Tom,
I love you better than all the world.  With all my heart
and soul I love you."

She knelt beside him and drew his head down on
her shoulder.

"I love you," she whispered again, and held him
close.

"But," he sighed in happy endurance of the
unwonted attentions he was receiving, "Why do you
love me so desperately?  Is it because of my beauty
or my goodness?"

"It's both, Tom."

"Oh, I have it," he exclaimed, "it's my wealth."

"Tom," she said reproachfully and rose to her feet,
but before she could reprimand him for his last
assertion his arm was around her waist.

"Bessie dear," he said solemnly, "do you know,
for a moment in the joy of your coming I forgot my
poverty."

"I did not, Tom," she answered.

"You are an angel of love and beauty, dear girl;
you have taken a load from my heart and brightened
my life this day.  I can't tell you how I adore you, how
grateful I am for what you have said to me, but I
cannot marry you."

"Tom," she cried reproachfully.  "Do you think
I do not know of that wretched bargain to which you
were driven by that terrible publisher?"

"Who told you?"

"Mr. Sheridan."

"Will that old Irishman never learn to keep his
mouth shut?"

"Never, while he can do good to a friend by opening
it, Tom."

"I 'll sue him if he keeps on."

"That does n't seem to do much good, dear lad;
I 've been suing ever since I came here this afternoon,
and I do not seem to have accomplished anything.
Tom, say we shall be married soon, there 's a dear."

"Bessie," he said slowly, holding her at arm's
length, so that he could look deep into her eyes, "I 'll
have to get a clerkship somewhere before that can be.
My whole literary work is mortgaged for the future."

"You shall not keep that wicked agreement, Tom."

"Oh, Bessie, a promise is a promise," said Moore.
"When I have found a position I 'll consider your
proposal of marriage.  Can't you see, dear, what poor
proof of my love for you it would be to allow you to
share my present lot?  Think how we should struggle,
perhaps almost starve."

"I should not care if I were with you," she said.

"But I, Bessie?  It would break my heart to know
you were bearing such desolation for love of me."

"Where there is love there can be no desolation."

Moore's voice shook as he answered her, but he
remained firm in his determination.

"You are the bravest girl in all the world, Bessie,
but even your sweet words shan't make me close my
eyes to the truth.  We will go on as we are now.  I 'll
fight it out, and when I am satisfied that I can offer
you one tithe of what you deserve, if God wills that
I succeed, I 'll come to you with open arms.  I 've no
head for business.  It's a new world I 'll have to
conquer, dear.  We must wait and I 'll not let you bind
yourself to me.  Perhaps there will be some one else
some day--"

She stopped his mouth with a kiss.

"How can you be so cruel?" she half sobbed.
"There can never be any one but you."

"But," he said mischievously, "you took so long to
make up your mind, I thought--"

"Tom, you don't love me or you would not tease me so."

"Oh, if you are to be believed, teasing is no sign of
indifference," said Moore.  "It's a leaf from the book
you wrote me this last year that you are reading now,
Bessie!"

"You are so obstinate," she sighed.  "Ah, Tom,
you will succeed in spite of all.  I know you will."

"Then, dearest, let us wait.  Think, how can I
expect you to obey me as my wife if you disobey me
as a sweetheart?"

"But," said the girl, pouting, "I am not used to
being rejected."

"*I am*," said he.  "It is good experience."

"I suppose I 'll have to let you have your way."

"I suppose you will, Bessie."

"Father is coming after me in half an hour," she
continued, taking off her hat as she spoke.

"So soon?" responded Moore, regretfully.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," said Bessie, quite at home as lady of
the house.

"What is that?" said Moore, looking at her.

"Come in," she repeated, blushing as she realized
her presumption.

"So you have established yourself already?" said
the poet, his eyes twinkling, as he opened the door.

It was Mrs. Malone, resplendent in the best her
wardrobe could afford.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE POET HAS CALLERS AND GIVES A DINNER-PARTY`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Twenty-Three*


.. class:: center medium

   *THE POET HAS CALLERS AND GIVES A DINNER-PARTY*

.. vspace:: 2

"Good avening, Misther Moore.  Oh, it's
yourself, Mistress Dyke?  The top of the
afternoon, darling.  I just dropped in for
a moment to tell yez the news."

"Ah," said Moore, hopefully, "the rent has been
lowered, I suppose?"

"You will have your joke, Misther Moore,"
chuckled the landlady, sitting down in the chair Moore
placed for her.

"And you 'll have your rent, eh, Mrs. Malone?"

"Tom," said Bessie, "do be still.  What is the news,
Mrs. Malone?"

"You are a couple of gossips," declared Moore,
sitting on the table between Bessie and the old woman.
"Oh, well, scandal is the spice of life they say."

"Well," began Mrs. Malone, in a tone appropriate
to the importance of her story, "it seems that Sweeny,
who kapes the grocery next door but two, has been
having throuble with his darter."

"My, oh, my!" exclaimed Moore, properly horrified
at the unfilial behavior of the young person
mentioned.

"Hush, Tom,"

"Why don't he spank the girl?" demanded the poet.
"If my daughter--"

"Tom!" said Bessie, giving him a reproving pinch.

"Well, I mean if ever I have a daughter."

"When you have will be time enough to tell about
her, won't it, Mrs. Malone."

"Faith," said that hopeful old female, "I luvs to
hear young couples planning for the future."

"Go on out of that," said Moore, shaking with
laughter, while Bessie was visibly discomposed.  "You
make me blush, Mrs. Malone."

"I niver t'ought I 'd do thot," observed the landlady.
"I t'inks that must be one of your kump'ny
manners.  Howiver, to continyer."

"I would if I were you, Mrs. Malone."

"Well how can I, if yez kape on bletherin'?"

"I 'm silent as the grave, Mrs. Malone."

"Jane Sweeny is the purtiest gal in the neighborhood--"

"Bar one, Mrs. Malone, bar one," interrupted Moore.

"Prisent company is always accepted," said the
landlady, politely wagging her frilled cap till it creaked
in its starchy immaculateness.

"If you had been here a few moments ago, you
would have heard it refused," said Bessie, ruefully.

"Who is interrupting now?" demanded Moore in
wrathful tones.

"Well, the lassie has took up kapin kump'ny on the
sly wid some strange laddybuck, whom nobody knows
a t'ing about, and will hardly look at the dairyman's
son Ike, wid whom she has been thrainin' these t'ree
years."

"The faithless hussy!" ejaculated the poet, in
scathing condemnation.

"Hush!" said Bessie, now scenting a love story,
and correspondingly interested.

"So Isaac--that's the son of the dairyman, you
know--"

"I 'm satisfied on that point, if the dairyman is,"
observed Moore, wickedly.

Bessie took a pin from her dress.

"I 'll punch you with this if you don't behave, Tom
Moore."

"Is that a joke, Bessie?"

"Yes, you 'll think so."

"Well, I won't be able to see the point of it if you
perforate me.  Go on, Mrs. Malone."

"So he swore he 'd get even--"

"The dairyman?  Oh, then he *did* have his doubts
after all?  Whom did he suspect, Mrs. Malone?"

Moore leaped off the table just in time to escape a
vicious thrust from the pin, as Mrs. Malone,
good-naturedly indifferent to his interruption, continued
her recital.

"Ike thracked the fine fellow home, or at least as
far as he could, and though he lost sight of him
without locatin' his house, he learned beyond all doubtin'
that he is a great gentleman of wealth and fashion."

"Ike is?  I 'll have to look him up if that is so,"
said Moore, pleasantly.  "Evidently the dairyman
was right to be suspicious, and what does Mrs. Dairyman
say now?"

"I 'm not talkin' about Ike," replied Mrs. Malone,
scornfully.  "It's the strange lad who is the rich
man."

"Oh, I see, Mrs. Malone.  I thought you had
discovered the reason for the dairyman's suspicions.
Now I think he was quite unreasonable to have his
doubts."

"Go on, Mrs. Malone.  I think it is delightfully
romantic," said Bessie, paying no attention to the
remarks of her lover.

"Romantic!" repeated Moore, in a disgusted tone.
"Sure, put a bit of a scoundrel after a lass of lower
station and instead of shouting for the watch she
always says 'How romantic!'

"You will have to leave the room, if you speak
again before Mrs. Malone has finished her story,"
said Bessie, severely.

"So, by hook or by crook, who should get wind of
Misther Gay Spark, but Sweeny himself."

Mrs. Malone paused dramatically, that the awful
news of the situation should have time to take effect.

"Oh, dear!" said Bessie, "how terrible for poor
Jane.  Do tell me the rest without delay.  I 'm getting
so excited."

"I 'll not sleep to-night, thinking of it," declared
Moore.  "Really, Mrs. Malone, you do wrong to
harrow up our feelings in this thrilling manner.  Well,
Jennie is discovered, and then--?"

"Then Sweeny learned that the unknown gintilman
was to meet her to-night."

"How did he learn that?" asked Moore, greatly
interested.

"From Jane."

"That girl talks too much.  She does n't deserve to
be the flame of such a spark," said the poet, utterly
disgusted with the heroine of the tale.

"Niver mind thot.  So Sweeny has locked up the
gal in her room--"

"Alone?"

"Faith, who would be likely to be with her,
sorr?"

"Well, you said something about a gay incognito,
did n't you?" suggested Moore.

"I niver did in me loife.  I 'll have yez to
understand, Misther Moore, I 'd scorn to use such profane
langwidge.  I 'm a dacent Catholic, as Father
O'Houlihan will tell yez, if yez ask him."

"I 'll ask him the next time I see him," said Moore.
"It is always best to be sure about these things.  But
go on, Mrs. Malone."

"Where was I?"

"You were locked up in the room with Jane Sweeny."

"I wuz not, sorr."

"I 'm sure it could n't have been with Sir
Incognito," said Moore, shocked.

"If I wuz locked up wid Jane Sweeny how could
I be here now?" demanded the landlady.

"Perhaps you made a ladder of the bedclothes, and
let yourself down from the window," suggested the
poet.

"I did not, sorr," replied Mrs. Malone, quite puzzled
by the web in which her lodger had entangled her.

"Then I 'll give it up, as I never was a good hand
at conundrums," said Moore, bubbling over with
merriment.  "Go on with your story about Father
O'Houlihan's gay friend."

"Well anniehow, Isaac and Sweeny and some other
of the byes is laying for Masther Gay Spark."

"For what purpose, Mrs. Malone?"

"For what do yez t'ink?"

"Perhaps they wish to present him with the
freedom of the city and a service of silver plate."

"Not much," said Mrs. Malone.  "They are going
to bate his head off for him, thot's what they are going
to do."

"Are n't they good-natured, Bessie?" said Moore.
"I hope he will see the humorous side of the affair
and treat it all as a joke."

"Well, it will be no laughing matter," said Mrs.
Malone, stoutly.  "As I said before, they 'll make jelly
of Masther Gay Spark."

"How terrible!" said Bessie, half frightened.

"Quite," said Moore.  "He 'll have a sugary time
I 'm thinking, for if heaven don't preserve him, Sweeny
will turn him into jelly.  I 'm afraid he will be badly
jammed one way or another."

"Who can this strange gallant be?" asked Bessie.

"By Gad, what if he were Sir Percival?" exclaimed
the poet, struck suddenly by the thought.

"You don't think so, Tom?"

"No, dear," said Moore, soothingly, "no such good
luck I 'm afraid."

"Well, I t'ink I must be goin'," observed Mrs. Malone,
rising from her chair reluctantly.  "Good
avenin' to yez both, darlin's.  Oh, there will be doin's
to-night, there will be doin's."

"Tell the dairyman I sympathize with him in his
domestic disappointments," said Moore, "and give
my regards to your friend Master Incognito, though
he is a naughty boy.  And a word to you, Mrs. Malone.
Don't trust him too far yourself.  I 'd never be alone
with him, if I were you, for it is best to be on the safe
side always,"

"Stop your tazing me, Tom Moore, or I 'll take you
across me knee and give you what you deserve,"
retorted the landlady, with a broad grimace which was
quite in keeping with her portly person.

Moore opened the door with a bow in his most
drawing-room manner, and having bestowed upon
Bessie a ponderous courtesy, the old woman waddled
out, running into Mr. Sheridan, who, being about to
enter, was thus rudely thrust back against Mr. Brummell,
who, elegantly attired as usual, was directly
behind him.

"Zooks!" exclaimed the Beau plaintively.  "Sherry,
I told you that you should not drink that last glass.
You have ruffled my cravat in a most shameful manner."

"I beg your parding, gintlemen," said Mrs. Malone,
remorsefully, "but divil a bit did I see yez."

"Mistress Bridget, no apologies are necessary,"
said Mr. Sheridan, graciously.  "How well you are
looking to-day."

"D'ye t'ink so?" giggled the ancient dame, more
than tickled by her great countryman's condescension.

"On me honor," replied Mr. Sheridan.  "You agree
with me, don't you, George?"

"Entirely," drawled Brummell, "entirely, 'pon my
soul.  How d' ye do, Tom?"

Moore's face beamed with delight as he saw who
his visitors were.

"I 'm fine," he said.  "Come in, friends, and make
yourself easy."

"Mistress Dyke," murmured Brummell, with a
courtly bow.

"Mistress Moore that is to be," corrected Moore,
proudly, "whenever I can afford such a luxury."

"What did I tell you, George?" said Sheridan,
delightedly, nudging the Beau with his elbow.

"Do be careful, Sherry," replied Brummell,
warningly.  "Tom, I congratulate you."

"So do I," said Sheridan.  "You have a cheerful
den, Tommy.  Here is a home for you, Brummell."

"Does Mr. Brummell need a home?" asked Moore,
waving his guests to the most comfortable of the
chairs.

"Faith, the Beau is better at breaking them than
making them," remarked the elder man, with a
chuckle.

"Zooks!" drawled Brummell, "that reminds me of
an execrable jest of which the Regent was guilty a
fortnight ago.  'Why am I like a farmer?' he inquired
of Percy Lovelace, who politely confessed that he
could detect no resemblance.  'Because,' said his
Highness, 'I keep a rake within reach,' and pointed
with his monocle at Richard Brinsley."

"That is a mighty bad pun, I 'm thinking," said
Moore to Bessie.

"Tom," she said warningly, "are you not already
sufficiently out of favor?"

"Pooh, Bessie, these lads are my friends.  Tell me
the news, you old gossip.  Am I still in disgrace?"

Sheridan shook his gray wig dolefully.

"You are, Tommy, I regret to say," he answered.
"The Regent honors you with his personal profanity
almost daily."

Brummell took a dainty pinch of snuff and
proceeded to change the subject.

"Have you heard of the Prince's quarrel with
Mrs. FitzHerbert?" he asked.

"No," said Moore, "have those turtle-doves had
a falling out?"

"Oh, it won't last long," said Sheridan, "but while
it does endure it is a mighty warm little spat."

"What caused the trouble if I may ask, Sherry?"

"The drollest reason," said the Beau with a dignified
smile.  "You 'll never guess it, Tommy."

"Then I 'll not try."

"Tell him, Sherry," said the Beau, adjusting his
ruffles.

"She became angry because the Regent visited his
wife late in the evening without a chaperon," laughed
the old Irishman.

"My, oh, my!" exclaimed Moore, horrified.  "Has
the Prince no sense of decorum?"

"How goes the world with you, children?" demanded
Sheridan, kindly.  "Do you manage to exist
without the approval of royalty?"

"We are getting on somehow.  I have enough to
eat, almost enough to drink--"

"You are indeed fortunate," interjected Sheridan.
"I cannot recall any period in my career when I had
anywhere near enough to drink."

"You must remember, Sherry," said the Beau,
languidly, "every Irishman does not have a bottomless
pit where nature usually places a stomach.  Your
pardon, Mistress Dyke, for using so corporeal a term."

"Well, to continue," said Moore, "besides the
possessions already enumerated I have a roof over my
head, and these same luxuries I can offer to my wife
when I get her."

Bessie looked up at him lovingly as he sat down on
the arm of the chair she occupied.

"We will be so happy," she said shyly to Mr. Sheridan.

"And we will need no chaperon, I 'm thinking,"
said Moore.

"I 'll wager you won't," said Sheridan, wisely.
"Well, George, let's get on our way."

"What's that?" said Moore, quickly.  "Get on
your way?  Not much.  You are going to stay to
supper with us."

"Well," said Sheridan, who had risen in a hesitating
way, "I--"

"Oh," said Moore, divining the cause of his countryman's
embarrassment, "it is true that you won't get
much to eat, but you are more than welcome to
whatever there is; and besides, think of the company you
will be in."

"That last decides me, if Mistress Dyke extends the
invitation," said Sheridan, yielding in response to a
nod from the Beau, who had decided to remain.

"Tom speaks for both of us," said Bessie.  "Don't
you, Tom?"

"Yes, and some day I 'll listen for both of us, no
doubt.  That will be when she points out my faults,
lads.  You must stay.  Bessie will make the tea--that
is, if there is any tea.  If there is n't any, she 'll mix
the whisky."

"Good," said Sheridan, smacking his lips.

"But there is tea," said the girl, opening the caddy
which she found in the cupboard.

"Just our luck, eh, Sherry?" said the poet, disconsolately.

Buster entered at this opportune moment and busied
himself, with the assistance of Bessie, in preparing
the simple meal.

Moore drew the chairs into position by the table as
Bessie laid the plates.

"You are to sit there, you disreputable old Hibernian,"
said he, assisting Sheridan to a seat on the right.

"Your place is there at the end, Fashion Plate.  I 'll
preside just opposite you across the festive board, and
Bessie shall sit on your left hand."

"Is she heavy?" inquired Sheridan, interestedly,
as he sat down.

"I 'm speaking metaphorically," the poet rattled on.
"How goes the play, Sherry?"

"'Pizarro' is certainly doing a fine business,"
replied the aged dramatist.  "The public likes blood and
thunder."

"I suppose you sent a box to the Dutchman that
wrote it?" said Moore.

"On the contrary, Tommy, I think he should buy
one to see how his play should have been written in
the first place," replied Sheridan, not at all
disconcerted, for he made no bones about admitting his
indebtedness to Kotzebue for his last great success.
"For my part, I 'm afraid Anacreon might not
appreciate some of the Odes as now rendered according
to the gospel of Thomas."

"Well, he was dead when I tackled him," retorted
Moore.

"Which no doubt saved you from answering at the
bar to the charge of manslaughter, for I 'm sure he 'd
never have survived the heroic treatment you gave him."

"Tea is ready," announced Bessie, opportunely.

"Good," said Moore.  "Buster, bring the wine."

"But there hain't none," responded the lad.

"Bring it, anyway.  Any one can bring wine when
there is wine, but it takes a smart boy to fetch it when
there is n't any."

"Hi hain't smart henuff," said Buster.

"It is of no importance, Tom," said Brummell,
graciously.

"Since when?" demanded Moore in surprise.
"How is that, Sherry?"

"I never drink," said the elder man, waving aside
the idea of alcoholic indulgence with a gesture of fine
contempt.

"No?" asked the poet, wonderingly.  "Oh, I suppose
you have it rubbed into your skin by your valet."

At this moment Bessie, having finished setting the
table, sat down in the chair pulled out for her by
Sheridan and the Beau in gallant competition, and the
supper began.

"Will you say grace, Brummell?" asked Moore.

"Say it yourself," drawled the Arbiter of Fashion,
smiling lazily at his hostess.

"But, his Highness thinks me a graceless rogue,"
objected the poet, "so it would be an act of treason
for me to prove him a liar."

"Well, then, I 'll say it meself," volunteered
Sheridan, with a wink at Moore.

"Good man.  Hush, now, every one."

Sheridan rose from his chair and leaning over took
possession of the bread plate.

"Ah," said Moore, knowingly, "then it is to be
'Give us this day our daily bread,' eh, Sherry?"

"You are away off the scent, Tommy," responded
the dramatist in a superior tone.  "Nothing so
conventional would be appropriate for this festive
occasion."

"Do go on, Sherry," advised Brummell, "I am
growing disgracefully hungry."

"Anything to oblige, Beau.  See, friends,

   |   'There's bread here for four of us:
   |   Thank God, there's no more of us!'"
   |

Sheridan sat down amidst the laughing approval of
the others.

"That," observed Moore, "is what I call a curst
fine bit of prayer-making.  Sherry and I like our
prayers like our liquor--concentrated."

"Your remark is a trifle paradoxical," commented
Brummell.  "Yes, Mistress Bessie, sugar and milk
both."

"Brummell has a sweet tooth," said Sheridan,
taking the cup Bessie passed him.

"And Bessie has a sweet mouth," said Moore,
buttering his bread generously.

"I suppose you know all about that, Tom?"

"Trust me for that, Sherry."

"That sort of credit is easy for an Irishman to
obtain," said the old gentleman.

"With Bessie?" inquired Moore.  "That shows
you have never tried, Sherry."

"He does n't know whether I have or not, does he,
Mistress Bessie?"

"Of course he does n't," chimed in the girl, coquettishly.
"We don't have to tell him all our little
frolics, do we?"

"I 'd hate to if I hoped to retain his friendship,"
chuckled the wit.  "It is like confident youth to
imagine itself ever the only favored."

"Look here," said Moore, aggressively, "there
will be enough of this supper, such as it is, to go
around handsomely without trying to spoil my appetite
with your base innuendoes, you old scandal-school
maker."

"He is jealous," observed Sheridan.  "Just have
the kindness to remember my age, Thomas."

"How can I when you yourself do not?" asked the
poet, slyly.  "Brummell, pass the butter.  If it's
stronger than you are, shout for help."

"You wrong the article," said the Beau, handing over
the desired plate.  "It's quiescence is most amiable."

"That reminds me," Moore remarked thoughtfully,
"of a scheme I have for increasing the volume of the
milk given by the cow."

"Volume?" repeated Sheridan.  "D' ye mean the
way the tale is presented to the public?"

"Well, if you let the bovine offspring remain too
adjacent it's bound in calf the lacteal fluid would be,"
replied Moore.

"Faith, the animal should be brought to book for
that," returned Sheridan.

"She 'd probably turn pale at the thought and kick
over the cream," retorted Moore.

"Dear me!" cried Bessie, "what brilliant gentlemen,
are they not, Mr. Brummell?"

"Yes, Mistress Dyke," answered the Beau, "*they are not*."

Bessie laughed at the unexpected termination of the
Beau's remark.

"A couple of silly punsters, 'pon my honor," sighed
the exquisite, nibbling his bread daintily.

"I think, Sherry," said Moore, "after that rebuke
we had better be less witty.  I 'll tell my story later
on.  The bill of fare includes chicken, gentlemen."

"Oh, Tom," said Bessie, shocked, "how can you fib so?"

"In the shell, Bessie, in the shell," explained the
host, holding up an egg.  "Cold and hard, but so young
it would melt in your mouth.  Then comes bread-and-butter
and tea."

"My favorite dish, believe me," declared Brummell.

"Then comes tea and bread-and-butter.  Next,
some cups and saucers and knives and forks."

"D'ye think we are ostriches?" demanded Sheridan.

"Then comes the best of all, gentlemen, the dessert."

"And what may that be, Tommy?"

"Well, it *may* be custard pudding--"

"Ah!" said Brummell in an approving tone.

"But it *is n't*," continued Moore.  "It is something
even sweeter and softer."

"Don't arouse my curiosity further," pleaded
Sheridan.

"Well, then, we are to have kisses for dessert."

Sheridan and the Beau applauded noisily while
Bessie blushed in a most becoming manner.

"How is the dessert to be served, Tommy?"

"I kiss Bessie," said Moore, exultantly.  "Then
comes your turn, Sherry."

"Ah!" said that gentleman, smacking his lips in
anticipation.

"Then comes your turn, Sherry.  You kiss Brummell."

The wit gave an exclamation of disappointment,
while the rest of the party laughed heartily.

"Really, Tom," said the Beau, "this egg is delicious."

"Sure it is," replied his host.  "We raised that one
on the bottle, didn't we, Bessie?"

Meanwhile he had helped himself to another, and
cracking the shell, turned away with an exclamation
of disgust.

"Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed, holding his nose.
"Bessie, I knew I ought to have hurried home with
that egg if I wanted to eat it.  Faith, it is too much
a chicken to be an egg, and too much egg to be a
chicken.  Buster, accept this with my compliments."

Buster obediently carried away the cause of the
trouble and stowed it outside on a corner of the
window-sill, reserving it for use as ammunition at
some future time.

"I never drank such tea, Mistress Bessie," said
Sheridan, passing his cup to be refilled.  "Really you
are an enchantress."

"She enchanted me years ago," said Moore.

"I suited him to a tee the first time I saw him," said
Bessie, laughing.

"A pun is the lowest form of humor," said Moore,
severely.

"And therefore at the bottom of all true wit," said
Sheridan, coming to his hostess's defence like the
gallant old Irishman he was.

"It seems to me you two are very thick," said
Moore, critically.  "I 'll have you to understand,
Richard Brinsley, that I am not to be treated with
contempt."

"I think Irish whisky would be what I should treat
you with, Tommy."

"A happy thought," cried the poet.  "Buster, the
Dew of Heaven."

"Some 'un just knocked, Mr. Moore," said the boy.

"Then open the door, you gossoon."

Buster did so, and Lord Brooking stepped quickly
into the room.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOM MOORE HEARS OF A POLITICAL APPOINTMENT`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Twenty-Four*


.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE HEARS OF A POLITICAL APPOINTMENT*

.. vspace:: 2

"Lord Brooking," cried Bessie in surprise,
rising from the table.  "I thought
you were still on the Continent."

"Not I, Mistress Dyke.  I returned yesterday.  So,
Mr. Moore, you have been getting into trouble, have
you?"

"Did you ever hear of an Irishman who was able
to keep out of it long?" asked Sheridan, waving his
hand in greeting to the young nobleman.

"Your lordship has come just in time.  Buster, call
that bulldog away before Lord Brooking bites him.
Get another plate, lad.  Sherry, move up and make
room for his lordship."

"There hain't any more plites," said Buster in a
hoarse whisper.

"Then get a saucer," commanded Moore, gaily.

"No, no, Tom," said his lordship.  "I 've just
dined."

"Oh, you know you are welcome," said Moore.
"Don't be too polite if you are hungry."

"I could n't eat a mouthful," said Lord Brooking.

"That's d--n lucky!" whispered Moore to Sheridan.

"Tut, tut, Tom," quoth that staid old party.
"Profanity is a luxury and should be used not abused."

"That's like an obedient wife," said Moore.  "Your
lordship, this is an impromptu banquet to celebrate
my engagement to Mistress Dyke."

"Is the engagement an impromptu?" asked Sheridan.

"No, we got it by heart," said Moore.

Brummell clapped his pretty hands in delight.

"Egad," said he, "I 've not heard such verbal
fireworks this six months."

"So you are betrothed, Tom?" said Lord Brooking.

"The darlin' has made me say 'Yes' at last," said
Moore in an apparently bashful tone.

"Mistress Dyke," said his lordship, taking her hand
and kissing it, "Tom is indeed a lucky man.  I wish
you both all the happiness you deserve.  Hang me, if
I 'm not envious, Tom.  I 've half a mind to marry
myself."

"It takes a smart man to marry himself," commented
Moore, "but it is economical."

Brooking sat down and crossed his legs in an easy
attitude.

"I have news for you, Tom," said he.  "News that
I fancy will please you."

"Have you found me a long-lost uncle, childless,
wifeless, and worth a million?"

"Not exactly."

"What, then, your lordship?  Surely not a long-lost
son?"

"I have endeavored to secure you the appointment
of Registrar of the Admiralty Court at Bermuda.  The
salary of the office is five hundred pounds yearly."

"Bermuda?" echoed the poet, hardly able to believe
his ears.

"Where the devil is Bermuda?" asked Sheridan,
taking snuff.

"That is where the onions come from, you ancient
ignoramus, but its geographical location does not
matter tuppence," said Moore.  "If you get the place for
me, sir, I will accept it gladly, and I thank you more
than I can tell for the attempt, whether you succeed or
not."

"Pshaw," said Lord Brooking, "wait until I put
the appointment in your hands, Tom."

"Ah," said Bessie, softly, "your lordship knows
how grateful we both are for your many kindnesses."

"Say no more about it," replied the young nobleman,
blushing like a girl.  "If I may truthfully
congratulate myself on having made the world brighter
and life's path easier for two such deserving friends,
I have gained a satisfaction no money could ever
purchase."

Moore shook his patron's hand with a grip that
conveyed more than any words of thanks could have done.

"Tommy, my boy, don't you need a private secretary?"
inquired Sheridan.

"Thank you, I 'll have no such lady-killer in my
official family," replied Moore.

"I congratulate you both," said Brummell, "but we
will miss you when Bermuda claims your society."

"You shall still be in touch with the world," said
Sheridan.  "I 'll write you all the scandal once a
week."

"It will take a pound for postage if you write it
all, Sherry," said Moore, dubiously.

"And I," said Brummell, rising, pompously, "will
keep you informed of the changes I deem advisable
to make in the fashions."

"That's mighty good of you, Beau."

"Oh, that will be splendid," said Bessie.  "I will
set all the styles on the island."

"Not much," said Moore, horrified.  "To do that,
Bessie, you would have to wear fig-leaves."

"Promise me, Tom, that you will let me know if
the black ladies are as pretty as they say?" said
Sheridan.

"I will investigate that matter myself," responded
the poet, winking slyly at the dramatist.

"Indeed you will do nothing of the kind, Tom
Moore," said Bessie in an indignant tone.

"Certainly not," said he.  "Sherry, you are a wicked
old man to even suggest such a thing."

"I was always fond of brunettes," said Sheridan,
calmly, "like you, Tom."

"What horrid things men are!"

"Old men are," assented Moore.  "Sherry, you
are a shocking old rascal."

"He is no worse than you, Tom," said the girl.

"Not half so bad, on my honor," observed the elder
gentleman.

"You are so, Mr. Sheridan," said the girl, changing
front immediately.

"See, Sherry, you can't abuse me with impunity,"
declared Moore with a chuckle.

"I 'll abuse you with profanity if you do not
stop flaunting your amatory success in my venerable
countenance," tartly retorted the gay old Irishman.

Lord Brooking looked at his watch.

"Jove!" he exclaimed, "I had no idea it was so
late.  I must be off."

"So soon?" asked Moore, regretfully, as his
lordship rose to his feet.

"I 'm due at Lady Fancourt's amateur theatricals
in ten minutes."

"So am I," said Brummell, smoothing his ruffles.

"And I also," said Sheridan.  "Is your cab waiting,
Brookie, me boy?"

"I think so," responded his lordship.  "I 'll be glad
of your company.  Will you risk close quarters with
us, Brummell?"

"Not I, Brooking," said the Beau.  "I prefer not
to disarrange my costume by crowding Sheridan."

"Aye," said Moore.  "An Irishman 's a bad thing
for an Englishman to crowd too far.  Since you are
going to walk, George, I 'll honor myself by seeing you
out of the neighborhood.  Such swells as you are
tempting game, and there is many a dark alley only
too handy."

"Good night, Mistress Dyke," said Lord Brooking,
bowing low over her hand.

"Good night," she said sweetly, "and thank you
again."

"Promise that once in a while you will write me
how fortune treats you if you go to Bermuda."

"Every month," answered the girl, her eyes bright
with the gratitude which filled her heart.  "God bless
you, sir."

"Good night," said his lordship again, and stepped
out in the hall.

Sheridan kissed Bessie's hand, and purposely
lingered over it so long that Moore shook his fist at
him.

"Easy there, Sherry, easy there."

"Selfish man!" murmured Sheridan, as he followed
Brooking.  "Good night, Mistress Dyke."

Brummell bade good night to his hostess and
joined the others in their descent as Moore, after
making a feint of putting a kiss upon Bessie's
hand, at the last moment transferred it to her
smiling lips.

"You won't be longer than is necessary, will you, Tom?"

"I 'll not be half that long," said he, running after
his guests, who were now well on their way down the
first flight of stairs.

Bessie turned from the door with a rapturous sigh,
only to receive a reproachful glance from Buster, who
was sternly regarding her.

"Wot 'll become hof my morals hif these hindearments
continyers?" thought the lad, vaguely jealous.
"Hit's henuff to turn one hagin mater-ri-mony, that's
wot hit his.  Hi thinks Hi 'll jine a monkery."

"To Bessie," murmured the girl, kissing the poem
as she drew it from her breast, little suspecting
Buster's doubtful frame of mind.  "Buster, you may
clear away the tea-things after you have had your
supper.  I must go down and tell Mrs. Malone the
good news."

"Well, hif she harsks arfter me, say Montgomery
Julien Hethelbert sends 'is luv," said the boy, more
cheerfully.

"*Montgomery Julien Ethelbert*," said the girl,
opening the door.

When she had closed it behind her, Buster addressed
himself disgustedly to his pal, Lord Castlereagh.

"Montgomery Julien Hethelbert," he repeated in
high disdain.  "Hain't that an 'ell of a nime for a
sporting cove like me?"

"Wuff!" barked the dog, in sympathy.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SIR INCOGNITO RECEIVES A WARM WELCOME`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Twenty-Five*


.. class:: center medium

   *SIR INCOGNITO RECEIVES A WARM WELCOME*

.. vspace:: 2

The gentleman whose attentions to Jane
Sweeny were causing so much excitement
in the neighborhood favored by her residence,
little suspecting that a warm welcome was there in
preparation for him, let himself quietly out of a little
private door in the rear of his great mansion and
turned his steps cheerfully towards their rendezvous.
He seemed to be in fine spirits, for once or twice he
checked a whistle as it was about to escape from the
lips he had unconsciously pursed as he strode quickly
along.

It seemed to be his wish to avoid recognition, for
he kept his face hidden as much as was rendered
possible by his up-turned cloak collar and wide,
drawn-down hat brim, though this desire upon his part
seemed to grow less imperative as he left the
fashionable locality in which he lived, and turning down a
side street, followed a course that twisted and turned
from poor neighborhood to even poorer, then on till
the respectability of the locality was once more on the
increase until he found himself on a shabby street not
far from the one on which the establishment of
Mrs. Malone was situated.  The spot at which he had
arranged to meet Sweeny's daughter was now near at
hand.  The gentleman, who was tall and well shaped,
though slightly inclined to corpulence, strolled
leisurely along the street, evidently confident that his
charmer would not fail to be on hand promptly at their
trysting place, but much to his surprise, when he
arrived there was no one waiting for him.  He paused,
gave an exclamation of disappointment, and, drawing
out his watch, stepped nearer the street lamp that he
might see if he had anticipated the time appointed for
his arrival.  The timepiece assured him that he was
several minutes behind the chosen hour, and after
swearing softly to himself, he pocketed it and turned,
intending to stroll leisurely up and down the street
until the tardy damsel should put in an appearance.

At this moment a stalwart youth, with eyes set
widely apart and the jaw of a pugilist, walked softly
across from the opposite side.  So noiseless was his
tread that the first comer did not discover his proximity
until he had approached within a yard or two.

"H'are yer witing for some 'un?" demanded the
unprepossessing youth, whose name it is almost a
needless formality to announce was Isaac.

"What is that to you, sir?" replied the gentleman,
haughtily, contemptuously regarding his questioner.

"W'y, sir, Jine harsked me--"

"Oh, Jane sent you then?"

"Ha!" cried the younger man, triumphantly.  "Hi
wuz sure yer wuz the cove.  There hain't no doubt
habout it now."

"Perhaps you will be kind enough to inform me as
to the reason for this sudden ebullition of delight?"
said the gentleman, puzzled by the youth's behavior,
and, if not alarmed, not exactly at ease as to the
probable developments of the immediate future.

If his eyes had been a trifle more used to the
semi-darkness of the street, particularly at the places
midway between the flickering lanterns, on whose
incompetent illumination depended the lighting of the
great city after nightfall, the elegant stranger would
have perceived that his interrogator was not alone.
Several little groups had emerged from convenient
doorways and cellars, and, clustered in the denser
shadows for temporary concealment, awaited a
prearranged signal to advance.  These sinister-looking
individuals were armed with weapons still more
sinister,--knotty cudgels, heavy canes, in one instance
an axe handle and in another a spade, new and
unsullied as yet by labor.

"Ho, Hi 'll be kind henuff, don't 'ee fear," sneered
Isaac, and with a quick movement he snatched his felt
hat from his bullet head and slapped it viciously across
the face of his companion.

Immediately he received a blow on the chin straight
from the shoulder of the insulted gallant, which
dropped him, an inert bundle of clothing, in the filth
of the gutter.

"Down with the swell!" yelled an enthusiastic lad,
armed with an empty quart bottle, as the crowd surged
forward from both sides, scattering across the street
to cut off all chance of their game's escape.

The object of their hostile intentions threw a hurried
glance around him and, realizing the futility of
attempting to break through the ranks of his enemies,
gave an exclamation of despair.  Escape seemed
impossible, yet surrender was not to be thought of, for
the fate in store for him at their hands was only too
plainly evidenced by their demeanor.  Turning, he ran
up the steps of the house immediately behind him and
tried the door.  It was locked and made of material
far too tough and seasoned to yield to the impact of
his weight, as he found when he had hurled himself
with crushing force against it.

Meanwhile the mob had almost reached the steps
which at their highest point attained an altitude of
about eight feet.  If he ran down to the street it would
be only to rush into their clutches; unarmed as he was
he could not long successfully defend the stairs; then
what could he do?

"Watch!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.
"Watch!  Watch to the rescue!  Murder!  Watch!  Help!"

The united force of his pursuers halted in front of
the house where he had vainly endeavored to secure
an entrance.  The game was trapped and their plan
had met with success quite unqualified, unless the
insensibility resulting from the tremendous punch which
Isaac's jaw had received from the gentleman now at
bay at the top of the steps could be regarded in the
light of a serious reverse.  The disposition of the still
unconscious youth's companions seemed to be to
regard his misfortune in the light of a joke, though their
obvious intention was to add this example of the
strange gallant's prowess to the total of the score for
which they expected to secure settlement in full
without further delay.

"'Ee 's an 'ansome pusson, hain't 'ee?" remarked
one facetious individual in the front rank of the crowd
assembled at the bottom step.

"A blooming Prince Charmin'," assented a heavy-browed
ruffian, resting his great cudgel on the railing.
"Oh, but he are n't a circumstance to what he will
look when we have altered his countenance a bit."

"It stroikes me the spalpeen has been powdering his
mug," growled Sweeny, his little eyes blazing with
a ferocious light.  His lips, damp and red, were
wolf-like as his tusk-shaped and scattered teeth bit deep
into them in his rage.  "He 's pale loike."

"Watch!  Watch!"

"Call, sorr, call.  It's no good the watch will do yez
this noight.  Ye 'll git a bating now that ye will carry
the marks of to your dying day."

"I 'd rather be excused, sir," replied the gentleman,
coolly.  "Unless I mistake, I have not the honor of
your acquaintance."

"I 'm Sweeny, Jane's father."

"Indeed?  How do you do, Mr. Sweeny?" politely
inquired the girl's admirer.

"I 'll be better when I 've pounded you to a pulp,"
growled the old Irishman, taking a new and firmer
grip on the club he held.

"Then why delay, friends?  Let us have it over
with at once," suggested the hunted gentleman,
smiling as pleasantly as though he were inviting divers
acquaintances to partake of biscuits and tea.

"Bli' me, hif 'ee ain't a well-plucked cove," said the
lad with the bottle.

A murmur of admiring assent ran through the
crowd.  It would be much greater sport to beat so
valiant a gentleman to death than to thrash a
low-spirited coward such as they had anticipated
encountering.  These worthy and unworthy denizens of
poverty-stricken dwellings, for in the assemblage there
were both honest and dishonest, like most of their rank
in society, were firm believers in the theory that fine
clothes and a high-bred manner were reliable indications
of a cowardly spirit and physical weakness.  To
so suddenly have their ideas on this subject proved
incorrect was a surprise more startling than would be
at first imagined.

Sweeny felt that his followers were wavering in
their allegiance, and fearing lest further delay might
result in a behavior on their part unsatisfactory to him
personally, he gave a growl of wrath and rushed
fiercely up the steps waving his cudgel.  The
gentleman calmly and skilfully kicked him in the mouth and
sent him hurling backward down on the heads of his
friends, bloodstained and well nigh insensible.  This
bit of battle decided the action of the mob, and, excited
by the sight of their leader's blood, they pressed
resolutely up the steps.  It was quite impossible for the
hunted gallant to beat back such a force as was now
attacking him, and, fully realizing this, he made no
such attempt.  Instead, he tore his cloak from about
his shoulders and threw it over the heads of the
foremost of his opponents, leaped quickly on the railing
of the steps and sprang wildly and hopelessly towards
the parallel flight which led to the front door of the
adjacent house.  He reached the rail with his hands,
but his weight was too much for him when coupled
with the terrible force with which his body struck the
side of the steps, so, with a groan of despair, he fell in
the areaway.  He tumbled feet first on a grating
leading to the cellar of the house, which gave way and
precipitated him into the depths below, as his
pursuers, mad with the excitement of the chase, rushed
down the stairs from which he had made his daring
leap.  It looked as though it might go hard with the
unknown gentleman, valiant and resourceful though
he had proven himself.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOM MOORE'S SERVANT PROVES A FRIEND IN NEED`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Twenty-Six*


.. class:: center medium

   *TOM MOORE'S SERVANT PROVES A FRIEND IN NEED*

.. vspace:: 2

Buster ate a hearty supper and fed Lord
Castlereagh with the scraps.  This done, he
was about to proceed with the dish-washing,
a kind of toil for which he had a more than ordinary
contempt and dislike, when the sound of shouting in
the street attracted his attention.

For once in his life the boy had failed to ascertain
the news of the neighborhood of that day, and as he
had been absent when Mrs. Malone conveyed to his
master the intelligence of Sweeny's purposed ambush
of Jane's unknown swain, he had had no tidings
concerning that important happening, so was not the
active participant in the adventure that he would
otherwise have been.  This being the case, he was quite at
a loss to account for the sounds of tumult below.

"My heye!" he remarked to the bulldog, whose
curiosity was similarly aroused, "wot a rumpussin'.
Who 's getting beat hor married, Hi wonders?"

Sticking his head out of the window, the boy could
discern nothing down in the dark street.  It was quite
evident that the voices which had attracted his
attention proceeded from one of the narrow lanes running
at right angles to the larger thoroughfare on which
the lodgings of Moore fronted.

"Somebody 's risin' a bloody hole row, your lordship.
Well, we keeps hout of it this once, don't we?"

The bulldog gave a whine of dissent.  He saw no
reason for remaining quiet when such unexcelled
opportunities for vigorous contention were being
offered gratuitously below.

Buster shook his head sadly.

"Halas!" he observed in a melancholy tone.  "That
hole gladheateral spirit hof yourn his never horf tap.
You h'are a blooming hole pugilist, that's wot you
h'are.  You horter be hashamed of yourself for wantin'
to happropriate somebody else's private row."

Lord Castlereagh felt unjustly rebuked and retired
to his favorite corner, apparently losing all interest
in the hubbub, which continued below, growing
gradually less noisy as though the cause were slowly
departing from the immediate neighborhood.  Suddenly
the dog's quick ear detected an unwonted sound
coming from the rooftops, and with a growl, spurred on
by his still unsatisfied curiosity, he ran across the
room to the window by which his master in the old
days had been wont to evade the vigilance of
Mrs. Malone.  Buster followed him, and, looking across the
undulating surface made by the irregular roofs,--a
sort of architectural sea rendered choppy by uplifting
ridge-poles and gables of various styles, cut into
high waves and low troughs by the dissimilar heights
of sundry buildings, with chimneys rising buoy-like
from the billowy depths, which in the darkness were
blended softly together by the mellowing and
connecting shadows,--he saw the figure of a man emerge
from the scuttle of a roof perhaps two hundred feet
distant.  At the same moment there came a howl of
fury from the street below, which grew louder, as
though the crowd from which it emanated were streaming
back in the direction of Mrs. Malone's residence.
The fugitive, for that he was such could not be
doubted, beat a hurried retreat across the roofs,
tripping, falling, crawling, but ever making progress and
nearly always hidden from the point at which he had
effected his entrance to the house-tops by the friendly
shelter of intervening chimneys and gables.  All at
once a burly form leaped out of the scuttle from which
the first comer had emerged.  This newly arrived
individual carried a club and was followed out on the
roof by half-a-dozen companions of the same ilk.
Straightening up to his full height, while gingerly
balancing on the nearest ridgepole, the fellow caught
a glimpse of their prey crawling up a steep roof quite
a little distance further on towards the window from
which Buster was now intently watching the chase.

"There he goes, lads.  He is right in line with that
tallest chimbley," bellowed the leader.

"Aye, aye!  After him!  After him!"

An answering howl came from the street, and,
sliding, running and stumbling, the pursuers began to
follow the fugitive across the housetops.  Then they
lost sight of him, and for a while completely baffled,
searched in a scattered line, slowly advancing,
investigating each possible hiding-place as they came to it,
urged on by the growling of the mob patrolling the
street below.  Suddenly one of their number, the lad
armed with the huge bottle, tripped over a broken
clothesline and fell headlong into the V-shaped trough
formed by the eaves of the two adjacent houses.  He
found himself rudely precipitated on the body of the
hunted man, who had lain snugly concealed at the
very bottom of the roof-made angle, but before he
could do more than utter one choking scream, the
fugitive, despairing of further concealment, silenced
his discoverer with his fist, and with the rest of the
pack in full cry at his heels, began again his wild flight
over the roofs.  Fortune favored him once more, and
the band hunting him was forced for a second time to
pause and scatter in close scrutiny of the ground over
which the fleeing gallant had made his way.  Then
Buster saw a tall figure creep out of the gloom cast
by a huge chimney, which, shadowing a roof near by,
had enabled him to crawl undetected from the
hiding-place that he had found beneath the eaves of an
unusually tall building, near the house from the attic of
which the boy was now excitedly tracing his line of
flight.  Buster's sympathy was all with the fleeing man.
To sympathize was to act, and having found the rope-ladder
which used to serve his master as a means of
exit by the window when prudence dictated such an
evasion, he tumbled it out, at the same time attracting
the hunted gentleman's attention with a friendly hiss.

"This w'y, sir, this w'y," whispered Buster,
silencing the threatened outcry of Lord Castlereagh
with a commanding gesture.  "Keep low has you can
till you gets 'ere.  The big chimbley 'll keep 'em from
seeing you till you 're safe hup, sir."

Crawling rapidly along on his hands and knees, the
much-sought gentleman managed to gain the necessary
distance without being discovered, and sheltered
by the grim outlines of the huge chimney Buster had
indicated, he climbed laboriously up the ladder to the
window of Moore's attic.  The boy held out a
welcoming hand and assisted him to enter.  Once in, the
stranger gave a sobbing sigh of relief, and groped his
way to a chair.  The moon, till now providentially
bedimmed, came out from behind the froth of clouds
and the light entering the window fell full on the
new-comer's flushed face.

"Blow me!" cried the boy in astonishment.  "Hif
it hain't the Prince hof Wyles!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE POET REGAINS ROYAL FAVOR`:

.. class:: center large

   *Chapter Twenty-Seven*


.. class:: center medium

   *THE POET REGAINS ROYAL FAVOR*

.. vspace:: 2

"You know me?"

"Hi just does, your 'Ighness," replied the
boy, dragging up the ladder as he spoke.

This he deposited in its usual hiding-place before
turning to his royal guest, who was still panting from
the exertion of his flight.

"Put out the light," directed the Prince, pointing
to the candles on the mantel.

"Ho, no, your 'Ighness.  That 'd make them
suspicious," dissented Buster.

"Perhaps you are right," said Wales, reflectively.

"Per'aps Hi his," admitted the boy.  "Hi ain't
hallus wrong, you know, your 'Ighness."

"What place is this, my lad?"

"This," replied Buster, grandiloquently, "his the
palatial residence of the famous poet, Mr. Thomas Moore."

"Moore!" repeated the Prince in astonishment.
"Fatality pursues me."

"Hif that's wot wuz harter you Hi don't wonder
you cut stick," said the boy, cautiously peering out of
the window.

"To while away a tedious evening I sometimes
assume a disguise such as my present adornment and
go out in search of adventures," said Wales,
condescending to explain his present predicament.

"Yessir," said Buster, "Hi knows Jine Sweeny
myself.  You h'are the pusson Hi saw with 'er the
hother night."

"Did you recognize me?"

"Not then, sir, your 'at wuz pulled too low."

"Perhaps you knew that a demonstration was being
prepared in my honor this evening?"

"Not I, your 'Ighness.  Ho law! but hit's lucky
Hi saw you.  They 'd likely have beat your 'ead horf
you, your Majesty."

"That seemed to be their intention," assented Wales,
"nor have they yet abandoned the idea, if I interpret
their present activity correctly."

"Hif they manages to trice you 'ere, wot 'll we do?"
demanded Buster, as the sounds on the roofs outside
drew nearer.

"What would you suggest?" asked the Prince,
quite calmly.

"You 'd 'ave to tell 'em who you are."

"Ah!" said Wales, doubtfully, "but would they
believe me?  Hardly, my good lad."

"Hush, your 'Ighness, they are near hat 'and."

The inmates of the garret could now plainly hear
the scuffling steps of the men on the nearest roof as
they slid and slipped on the inclines.

"Where the h--l can he have gone ter?" queried
a piping voice.

"That's the wine merchant's clark," announced
Buster to the Prince.

"Yes?  What did you say his name was?"

"Hi did n't s'y," replied the boy guardedly.

Wales laughed pleasantly.

"You are a wise lad," said he.  "What are they
doing now?"

"You 've got 'em puzzled, your Tghness.  They his
puttin' their bloomink 'eads together.  Now they 're
a 'untin' agin."

"No trace of him here."

"He came this way, I 'll swear."

"Three he has put his mark on this night.  Sweeny,
Isaac, and Welch's Will."

"Will?"

"Aye, the lad with the bottle.  He 's lying out on
the eaves yet."

Buster gave his guest an admiring look.  Such
prowess was deserving of all commendation.  Wales
caught the glance, and chuckled softly.  Whatever
shortcomings might be laid at the door of the
gentleman destined to be the fourth George, cowardice was
not one of them.

"Never mind, lads," said another voice.  "He cawn't
git away.  The street is watched and all we have to
do is to hunt him up."

"We hain't a doin' hit.  Hat least not has I sees."

"Stop your croaking, Blount.  D' ye think he could
climb to that window?"

"Now for it," murmured Wales.

"Naw, 'ee hain't no bloomin' bird to fly hup ten
foot o' wall, his 'ee?"

"Scatter, then.  That way there, over to the right."

In obedience to this instruction the party were heard
moving off with uncertain steps and Buster turned
away from the window with a sigh of relief.

"Hi fawncies you 're sife, your Majesty," said he.

"Agreeable intelligence, I must admit," sighed the
Prince, assuming an easier position.  "My subjects
possess the virtue of persistence."

"Yessir, they dearly loves to club a swell cove hif
they think 'ee his arfter their lydies."

Steps sounded in the hallway and the Prince rose
quietly to his feet, prepared to renew the struggle.

"Don't be halarmed, your Tghness," said Buster,
reassuringly.  "Hit's only Mr. Moore returning."

"Do not acquaint him with my presence," said
Wales.  "I will make myself known when I think best."

"Yes, your 'Ighness."

The Prince stepped behind the curtain separating
the poet's bedchamber from the sitting-room and there
awaited developments in silence.  Moore opened the
door and ushered in Mr. Dyke.

"I thought Bessie was here," he said in surprise as
he noted her absence.

"Mistress Dyke went down to hinterview Mrs. Malone,
sir," explained Buster, in a quandary as to
how he should act.  A prince, of course, could not be
lightly disobeyed, but at the same time he felt qualms
at the thought of what his master, not suspecting the
presence of royalty, might chance to say.

Moore solved the problem for him unknowingly.

"Then go down," said he to Buster, "and tell my
future wife that her former father is here."

Buster, relieved at the removal of responsibility,
quickly left the room.  Mr. Dyke looked around at
the bare, unsightly walls and sadly shook his head.

"To think I should bring you to this, Thomas," he
said, remorsefully.

"Sit down, Mr. Dyke, and have done with lamentations.
So long as I do not complain, you surely have
no reason to find fault," said Moore, cheerily.

"No, Thomas, I feel I must confess the truth to
the Prince."

"What nonsense," said Moore, firmly.  "No, no,
Mr. Dyke, for you to confess that you wrote the poem
satirizing his Highness would be the height of folly.
I doubt if it would do me any good, and it certainly
would completely ruin you."

"I know," began the old man, but Moore interrupted him.

"I much prefer things as they are," he said.  "Allow
me to choose, Mr. Dyke."

"You do not know the pangs of conscience I have
suffered."

"More likely it was indigestion, sir."

"You took the blame for my folly.  I went free, but
your brilliant career was cut short."

"Very short," admitted the poet, who was seated
on the table, comfortably swinging his legs.  "But
the shortening is frequently the most important part
of the dish."

"Your rising star was plucked cruelly from the sky
before reaching its zenith."

"Between friends, you can omit the poetry," suggested
Moore.  "It seems like talking shop if I may
say so without offence."

"I see you are resolved," said the old man weakly.

"Ah, yes," replied the poet, jumping off the table,
and approaching his future father-in-law, he laid his
hand kindly on the old man's shoulder.

"It is all for the best, sir," he went on with a
sincerity that was convincing.  "I did not know, I was
not sure, that your daughter loved me.  She, bless her
pretty head, was too full of life and laughter to read
her own heart.  My adversity has brought her to me
with outstretched arms and a love more tender, more
true, than even I dreamed it could be.  No, no, sir.
Keep your mouth shut to please me."

"It is really your wish that I do this?"

"Sure it is," replied Moore, satisfied that he had
carried his point.

"But the Prince, Tom?"

Moore's face saddened, but he rid himself of his
regret with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Poor man," he said.  "He thinks harshly of me,
no doubt.  Ah, well, perhaps it is better so, Mr. Dyke.
And yet I 'd be easier in my mind if he knew how I
regard him.  I have no feelings save those of friendship
and gratitude in my heart for him but he 'll never
know."

"Yours is a generous soul, Thomas."

"To-night I can say as truly and fondly as on that
evening his favor plucked me from poverty and failure,
'God bless the Prince Regent.'"

"It is needless to say I echo that sentiment, Mr. Moore."

Moore turned with a low cry.  The Prince had
stepped noiselessly from behind the curtain to the
centre of the room, and stood with a smile on his face,
enjoying his involuntary host's surprise.

"Your Highness," stammered Moore, for once
thoroughly abashed.  "Your Highness!"

"Aye, Wales himself.  Good evening, Mr. Dyke.
It seems that I have wronged you, Moore."

"Your Highness heard?"

"Every word, gentlemen."

"I am not sorry," said Mr. Dyke, softly.

"But," said Moore, rallying from his astonishment,
"how came your Highness here?"

The Prince's eyes twinkled, but his face was grave,
almost solemn.

"For that information, sir, I must refer you to your
neighbor, one Mr. Sweeny."

"Then you, sir, are the gay spark?"

"No doubt a spark, since I shall make light of my
adventure, but in reality not so very gay."

Bessie came hurrying along the hall and flinging
open the door entered breathlessly.

"Oh, Tom, Tom," she cried.  "The hall below is
full of men.  They are searching for the strange
gallant who won Jane Sweeny from the grocer's son."

The Prince took a pinch of snuff.

"Egad!" said he.  "A remarkable achievement, it
seems.  I 'm beginning to be proud of it."

"The Prince!" exclaimed the girl in amazement.

"An uninvited guest, Mistress Dyke," said his
Highness, jovially.

"And therefore doubly welcome, sir," returned
Moore, at the door listening to the murmur that came
from below.  "Your Highness, they are coming up
I am afraid.  They have traced you here."

"Devilish awkward," muttered the Prince, looking
around for a weapon; "I shall have to fight, I fancy."

"No, no," said Moore.  "That is no way to get
out of this mess.  We would be beaten down in a
moment."

"*We?*"

"Aye, Sire, Mr. Dyke, you and I.  I have a better
scheme, if you will trust yourself to me."

"I prefer you to our friends."

"Then hide in the next room," said the poet, drawing
back the curtain.  "I 'll get them off your track
or my name is not Tom Moore.  Whatever you hear,
don't stir out, your Highness."

Buster entered in a rush.

"Ho, sir," he panted, "the 'ole parcel hof 'em his
a-coming hup!"

"Hush!" said Moore.  "This way, Sire."

Wales obeyed his host's instructions and vanished
in the adjoining room, his manner still cool and
unruffled.

"Buster, can you lose those rascals in a chase over
the roofs?"

"Hi can, sir," replied the boy valiantly.  "Hi 'll
give 'em such a run has they reads habout hin their
primers."

Moore tossed him an old hat and coat from the
cupboard.

"The way is clear, lad," he said, peering out the
window.  "Out with you and when I whistle show
yourself somewhere and then run like the devil.  When
you are tired, drop your hat and coat and you 'll be
safe."

"Drop nothing," said Buster.  "Hi knows too much
to be guilty hof hany such shocking waste as that."

He hurried out of the window, landing on the roof
below as lightly as any cat, as the sound of the
approaching mob grew louder.  There was but little
time to spare, and Moore wasted none of it.

"Bessie," he commanded, "lock the door behind us
when we go out in the hall.  When I sing, you scream
for help at the top of your voice.  Then, whatever
I say swear to like a darlin'.  Come, Mr. Dyke."

Moore grabbed the old gentleman by the arm and
hurried him out in the hall as the first of Wales'
pursuers set foot on the flight of stairs leading to
the attic.

   |   "The Harp that once thro' Tara's halls
   |     The soul of music shed,
   |   Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
   |     As if that soul--"
   |

A woman's scream rang through the house.

"Help!  Help!  Tom!  Help!"

"Bang!" went the locked door, kicked in by Moore,
who rushed into the room with a yell, followed by
Mr. Dyke.

"Out of the way, darlin'," he whispered to Bessie.
"I 've got to give myself an awful flaking."

Immediately the poet began a struggle all over the
room with an imaginary adversary.

"You would, would you?" he shouted at the top
of his lungs.  "Then take that, you raparee!  And
that, and *that*.  Help!  Mr. Dyke!  My, but he is
strong."

He seized the table and upset it, then danced around
the room like one possessed, dealing terrific blows to
the air.  He clutched the contents of the cupboard and
sent the china crashing in fragments on the floor.  The
chairs he beat up and down and back and forth against
the walls.  For all the world it sounded as though a
mad bull were rushing around the room dealing
destruction on every side.  Then he put his fist through
two panes of glass and paused in his performance,
standing by the window with heaving chest as the mob
led by Sweeny rushed into the attic.

"Oh, friends," he cried between gasps, "you come
too late."

"Too late for what, Mr. Moore?"

"To help me, you spalpeens.  A big devil, six feet
and a half high and a mile broad--I mean a mile high
and six feet broad--Oh, a curst big lump of a
lad--climbed into the window and laid violent hands on this
lady, my future wife, who was here alone--"

"The strange laddybuck," cried Sweeny.  "The
omadhaun we 're afther now."

"He locked the door so I could n't get in and laid
hold of her.  Didn't he, Bessie?"

The girl lied shamelessly.

"And I screamed," she finished, glad to add a little
truth to her falsehood.

"I kicked in the door and grabbed the villain.
Mr. Dyke and I both grappled with him, but he was too
much for us and beat us down and leaped out on the
roof."

The crowd surged up to the window with a howl
of rage, and Buster bobbed into view on a distant
gable.

"There he is now," cried Dabble, who was one of
the mob.

"Aye, aye, after him."

Sweeny took command.

"You four, Dabble, Blount, Williams and Lake,
out of the window and over the roofs again.  The rest
of us will guard every door in the neighborhood."

The chosen four dropped from the window, and the
crowd, Sweeny still in the lead, rushed out and
downstairs as frantically as they had come up, leaving the
attic to Moore and his guests.  The poet sat down on
an upset chair and breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's a comedian I am," said he.  "Bessie, how
does Drury Lane do without me?"

"I don't know," said the girl.  "I am sure I
could n't."

"My, oh, my!" panted Moore, "but you are learning
the right things to say at the right time very
quickly, Bessie."

The Prince emerged from his hiding-place.

"Bravely done, Mr. Moore," said he, laughing a
little.  "Egad, I 'd not trade this evening for any
other in my experience."

"No?" asked Moore.

"Not I, sir.  You rid us of them very neatly."

"For a while, your Highness.  They may return."

"True," said Wales, "so we had best lose no time
in getting help."

"Your Highness is right," said the poet, beginning
to restore the room to something like its old
appearance.  "Father-in-law, run out and--"

"Let me arrange this," interrupted the Prince.
"Mr. Dyke, if you will carry this ring to the house of
Sir Percival Lovelace, you will find him at supper.
Tell him of my predicament and say I bid him take
such steps as he may deem best to extricate me from
this misadventure without betraying my identity."

Mr. Dyke took the ring held out to him by the Prince.

"I 'll make haste," he said, and toddled out and
down the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him.

Wales accepted the chair which Moore placed for him.

"Sir," said he, "you have a talent for intrigue."

"Ah, Sire," said Moore, ingenuously, "if it were
not disrespectful, I would return the compliment.
Your Highness must have passed an exciting evening."

"Quite true, Mr. Moore, but I fancy I can do
without such excitement in the future."

"I rejoice to hear you say that, your Highness,"
said Moore, sincerely.

"Indeed, Mr. Moore?  And why so, if I may ask."

"Because," said the poet so winningly that it was
quite impossible for even a prince of the blood to take
offence, "'The First Gentleman of Europe' is too
proud a title to be lightly risked."

Wales grew red and bit his lip.

"I accept your reproof," he said.  "It is not
undeserved."

"Not reproof, your Highness.  Friendly advice,
nothing more."

"As you would have it, Mr. Moore," responded the
Prince, wearily.

Meanwhile Bessie had found the teapot to be one
exception to the general ruin wrought of Moore's
household utensils.

"Would it please your Highness to have a cup of
tea?" she asked, timidly.

"It will delight me much, Mistress Dyke.  May I
inquire when you intend to honor Mr. Moore by
becoming his wife?"

Bessie flushed up prettily and looked at her lover.

"The wedding would take place to-morrow if I
could afford it," said Moore, righting the table and
brushing it off with his coat-tail.

"Then I take it you cannot afford it?" said his
Highness.

"Not just at present," said Moore, cheerily.  "I
trust your health continues to be of the best, your
Highness?"

"I thank you, yes, but I have heard no such singing
in my favorite drawing-rooms as when you were wont
to frequent the haunts of the *beau monde*."

"I have been out of town," said Moore, calmly, as
Bessie brought the tea to the Prince in a cup which
had escaped the general smash-up.  The Prince sipped
its contents in high good humor.

"Delicious, Mistress Dyke," he declared, "your
husband will be a fortunate individual."

"There is but one grief which intrudes itself upon
his happiness," said the girl, tremulously, "the
disfavor of the Prince, who in his darkest hour won from
him both love and gratitude by his generosity."

"Hush, Bessie," said Moore.  "His Highness has
enough to think of, dearest."

"By the way, Moore," said Wales, languidly, "did
I not hear some mention made of your name in
connection with a political position in Bermuda?"

"You are right, your Highness," replied Moore,
reluctantly, "there was some such mention made."

The Prince looked thoughtful and drained his cup.

"Bermuda," said he, "is a long way from England,
Mr. Moore."

A step sounded on the stairs at this moment, and
Moore gladly rid himself of the embarrassment he felt
by approaching the door to make certain it was no
undesirable personage who was now approaching.

"Lord Brooking!" he cried.  "What good luck
brings you back?"

"I soon wearied of the theatricals and was out for
a stroll when by chance I encountered Mr. Dyke on
his way to Sir Percival's," explained the young
nobleman entering.  "It is needless to say, your Highness,
I made haste to join you here."

"But," said Wales, "did the good citizens not stop
you on your way?"

"For a moment or two, your Highness, but I
convinced them of my entire harmlessness and was
allowed to pass."

"Is Mr. Moore at home?" demanded a hoarse voice,
strongly flavored with Scotch dialect, from the hall
below.

"McDermot," exclaimed Moore.  "What can the
old vagabond want with me to-night?"

"If I am not mistaken, Tom, this is the old bloodsucker
who is to be your future publisher?" said Lord
Brooking.

"For life," responded Moore.  "You remember
I told you of our bargain not two hours ago.  Yes, I
am in, Mr. McDermot."

"Well then I 'll coom up," announced the publisher.

Moore was about to advise him not to when a
gesture from Lord Brooking led him to desist.

"Pardon me, your Highness," said Lord Brooking,
"but for certain reasons I deem it better that this
gentleman should not recognize you when he first
comes in."

"I'll look at the view, then," said the Regent,
pleasantly.

By the time Wales had reached the window, wisely
choosing the one which opened upon the street, for
there still came sounds of distant chase from the roofs,
McDermot was knocking on the door.

"Come in," called Moore.

The old Scotchman entered in a great rage.

"So I ha' caught ye at last?" he shouted at sight
of the poet.

"Have it your own way, sir."

"Six times ha' I called here, sair, ye trickster, ye
cheat."

"Hold on now," said Moore, in sudden anger, "you
are an old man, but more than enough of such talk is
a great deal too much."

Bessie laid a restraining hand on Moore's arm.

"Perhaps, Mr. McDermot, you will be kind enough
to state your grievance," she said, quietly.

"It's aboot the contract," sputtered the irate
publisher.

"Is n't that all right?" asked Moore, wonderingly.
"I signed it."

"Of coorse ye did, ye trickster, but ye did not tell
me when ye called to do so that the evening before ye
had been shamefully ejected from Sir Percival's house
by order o' the Prince of Wales."

"Surely that was Sir Percival's business," replied
Moore.  "He may have been proud of the affair; I
was n't."

"Ye should ha' told me," repeated McDermot, doggedly.

"But I did n't know you were so interested in my
goings and comings."

"You took my thousand poonds."

"Was that wrong?" asked Moore.

"Wrong?" echoed the publisher.  "D'ye think
I 'd give ye ten shillings for ye skin?"

"See here," cried Moore, his anger again getting
the better of him, "my skin is not for sale, but, if you
value yours, you had better keep a civil tongue in your
head, you old Rob Roy."

Lord Brooking stepped forward between the two
angry men.

"Am I right in believing that you are dissatisfied
with your bargain, Mr. McDermot?" said he in a
soothing tone.

"Dissatisfied?  *Dissatisfied*!  Why, at the present
time Mr. Moore is the very worst investment in the
literary market."

Brooking waved Moore back with an admonishing gesture.

"Then I take it you would be glad to cancel the
agreement?" he continued.

"But my thousand poonds?"

"I will advance Moore the money to repay you.  Of
course it is a risk, but for the sake of old times I will
assume the obligation.  Do you need other security
than my word?"

"Not I," said McDermot, gladly.  "There is your
contract, Mr. Moore."

As he spoke he took the paper from his pocket and
tore it into fragments.  These he carefully deposited
on the table and turned to go.

"One moment, Mr. McDermot," said an imperious voice.

The Prince came forward with an air of chilling dignity.

"You have made the greatest mistake of your life,
sir," he continued, addressing the astounded publisher.
"This I will show you if you listen.  Mr. Moore, you
and your fiancée have been little seen of late in the
world of fashion.  Pray alter this, my dear fellow.
Furthermore you may as well abandon all idea of
holding office in Bermuda save by deputy.  It is
impossible for the Poet Laureate of England to reside
at such a distance from Carlton House."

"Sir!" cried Moore, unable to believe his ears.
"Poet Laureate?"

"One Thomas Moore, not unknown to the literary
world, an Irishman of some wit and fancy.
Mr. McDermot, we need detain you no longer."

Crestfallen, the old Scotchman crept from the room
as Moore turned to Bessie almost too happy to speak.

"You heard?"

She nodded her head, her eyes filling with happy tears.

There was a clatter in the street and a closed
carriage drew up in front of Mrs. Malone's.  Following
it came a dozen hussars, riding gaily, as though in
hope of a skirmish.  Sir Percival Lovelace and
Mr. Dyke alighted and hurried upstairs, while Sweeny and
his adherents contemplated the soldiers from the safety
of distance in melancholy grandeur.

"I have been waiting for you, Sir Percival," said
the Prince.

"Yet I made all possible haste," said Sir Percival,
bowing low to Bessie.  "By good luck, Farquar of the
Tenth Hussars was dining with me.  A word to him
brought me a dozen stout lads, and with them for
escort I hurried here."

"Will Farquar keep a still tongue?" inquired Wales,
more anxious than he appeared.

"Trust him for that, your Highness," replied Sir
Percival, confidently.

"I think I will have to, Lovelace," observed the
Prince, dryly.  "Mr. Moore, I have only to thank you
for your kindly hospitality.  I shall expect you at
Carlton House in the morning.  Mistress Dyke, Tom is
indeed a lucky man.  As for you, Mr. Dyke, I only
await your promise not to repeat the offence to
overlook the error into which you fell some weeks ago.
Good night, my friends--Stay!  I would not leave
your clever lad unrewarded.  Give him this and tell
him if he ever sees fit to quit your service he will not
find Wales ungrateful."

As he spoke, the Prince took the ring which Sir
Percival held out to him.  Handing it to Moore,
he turned and bowed himself out, followed by the
baronet.

"Capital," said Lord Brooking, joyfully.  "I knew
you 'd not languish in disfavor long, Tom.  Ask
Mistress Bessie to name the day."

Moore stepped to his sweetheart's side.

"When will you become my wife, dearest?" he
asked, love sounding in his voice and gleaming in his
eyes.

"I will marry you to-morrow," she whispered softly,
her arms around his neck.

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