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, rea.s.sured 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. .h.i.t, 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. d.y.k.e, 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?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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_."