Tom Moore Part 11

"And why?" demanded his companion.

"Because I 'll not own friends.h.i.+p with so filthy a rogue as you will have proved yourself to be."

"Hum!" murmured Sir Percival, thoughtfully. "Then you will probably const.i.tute 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," a.s.sented 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 lords.h.i.+p.

"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 d.y.k.e 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.

_Chapter Seven_

_TOM MOORE OBLIGES A FRIEND AND GETS IN TROUBLE_

"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 lords.h.i.+p, 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 d.y.k.e himself. Devil take the old bore!"

Brooking pointed to the other exit.

"Perhaps we can escape this way."

Sir Percival, followed by his lords.h.i.+p, tiptoed across the room, but before they reached the other doorway, Mr. d.y.k.e, 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. d.y.k.e," 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."

d.y.k.e flushed with pleasure at the heartiness of the great gentleman's greeting. He was a pleasant-faced old man, simple and good-hearted, too p.r.o.ne 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, s.h.i.+mmery 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 ma.n.u.script 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. d.y.k.e. 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 lords.h.i.+p beneath his breath, but he bowed in pleasant a.s.sent 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 d.y.k.e's pocket.

"Really, Sir Percival," stammered the old man, in pleased embarra.s.sment.

"My poor effort--"

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

"G.o.d knows!" murmured Brooking to himself, "I hate to think of it."

Sir Percival's quick ear caught his lords.h.i.+p's muttered remark, so, as the fl.u.s.tered poet crossed to the window in hope of obtaining a glimpse of the absent schoolmistress, the baronet turned to Brooking with a laugh.

"Perhaps G.o.d 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," a.s.serted Sir Percival. Then more loudly he continued:

"Genius in every line, and more between them. My dear d.y.k.e, 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. d.y.k.e 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 s.e.x of London, or the a.s.sertion 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."