Tom Moore Part 22

"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," a.s.sented 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 G.o.d 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 s.p.a.ce 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.