"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 c.o.c.kney," said Buster, throwing open the door. "Turn your n.o.ble 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."

_Chapter Eleven_

_TOM MOORE RECEIVES VISITS FROM TWO COBBLERS AND A CLERK_

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 s.p.a.ce 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."