"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 d.y.k.e 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 d.y.k.e 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 pa.s.s 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 cl.u.s.tered 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 ma.s.ses and cla.s.ses, not for the a.s.ses," replied Moore, as pleasantly as though paying a delicate compliment to the n.o.bleman.

Sir Percival recognized that the first point had been scored by his. .h.i.therto 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 a.s.ses 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 d.y.k.e, 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 d.y.k.e has me _here_," replied Sir Percival, his anger cooled.

"We all have our troubles," observed Moore, plaintively, "even Mistress d.y.k.e."

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. d.y.k.e 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."