"A little wine now and then Is cheery for the soberest men."

"Ah," said Moore, "I see you are a student of the poets?"

"That verse is of my own decomposition," answered Mr. Slink proudly.

"I believe you," said Moore, suavely. "Your health, Mr. Slink, the health of Mrs. Slink, and all the little Slinkers!"

The cobbler emptied his gla.s.s and smacked his lips.

"We forgot to drink your own health, Mr. Moore. We must repair that oversight instanterly, if I may make so bold."

"I 'm flattered," replied Moore. "Buster, fill the gla.s.ses again."

"Splendid wine," remarked Mr. Slink, rather thickly for, if the truth be known, he had treated himself twice at the ale-house across the street before mounting to the attic, and this unwonted indulgence in addition to the hospitality of the poet made an aggregate amount of intoxicants quite a little more than he could comfortably contain.

"You 're a judge of liquor, Mr. Moore, a gentleman and a scholar in the bargain. I 've always told Matilda so, I a.s.sure you."

"I am delighted to hear you say so, Mr. Slink. Now if you will take this shoe that is tight back to the shop and have it stretched, I 'll pay you for the pair if the one that pinches suits as well as this I have on, when I try it on again."

"Just so, sir," replied the cobbler, cheerfully, meanwhile getting down on his knees to remove the unsatisfactory boot. "I 'll not be long, sir. You can rely on my return, sir, within the hour."

"That will be soon enough," said Moore. "Here is your paper, Mr.

Slink."

"Thank you, sir," said the now thoroughly exhilarated shoemaker, wrapping up the boot, as Moore resumed the well-worn slippers he had temporarily discarded for the test of Mr. Slink's handiwork.

"Good day, Mr. Slink."

"Good day, Mr. Moore."

"Oh, my best respects to Mrs. Slink."

"Matilda will be delighted, sir," replied the cobbler, moving out into the hall with a step decidedly uncertain.

Moore gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction as the sound of feet died away upon the stairs below.

"But, sir," said Buster, inquiringly, as he shut the door, "wot use his one boot?"

Moore regarded his youthful retainer with a look of mild astonishment.

"Don't you understand, Buster?"

"Not Hi, sir."

"Well then, I 'll not tell you. Demonstration is far more valuable than explanation. So just watch me, my lad. A study of Thomas Moore when hard up is a liberal education for the young and unsophisticated. You shall be educated, Buster."

"Yes, sir. Wot his it, Lord Castlereagh?"

"Gr-r-r-g-h!" remarked the bulldog, warningly, at the same time sniffing suspiciously at the crack of the door.

"Is-s-s Mister-r-r M-M-M-oore in?" demanded a husky voice, enthusiastically and persistently hyphenated by a decided stutter.

"Hit's the hother shoemaker, sir," whispered Buster, recognizing the thick utterance of the newcomer. "The one who spits on his words, sir, before 'ee lets loose hof 'em."

"Faith," said Moore, "it is a good thing the hall is dark. They must have met on the stairs. It's a wonder we escaped bloodshed, Buster."

"I s-say, is-s-s Mr. M-M-Moore at h-home?" repeated the shoemaker, with a hiccup that was plainly perceptible within the attic.

"Phew!" exclaimed Buster in an undertone, recoiling from the keyhole.

"Hole Smirk his loaded hup to 'is hears. You won't need to waste hany of the Hadmiral's sherry hon 'im, sir. 'Ee 's fragrant, sir, that's wot 'ee his, hand it hain't no bloomin' new mown 'ay wot flavors 'im, Hi tells yer."

"Admit the gentleman," said Moore, opening the windows to their widest extent. "A friend in need is a friend indeed."

"A friend in soak his more like it," murmured the boy, opening the door obediently.

The big, bald-headed, redfaced man who had egged Bekowsky on to disaster earlier in the afternoon staggered in with an oath and a hiccup so entangled on his lips that neither he nor his hosts made any effort to translate his greeting.

"Good-day, Mr. Smirk," observed Moore, pleasantly. "You are looking well, sir."

"T-t-t-hat is-s n-no ex-c-cuse f'r keeping me w-w-waiting a month in the h-h-hall," replied the intoxicated tradesman, thickly, endeavoring to look offended.

"We thought you were a publisher, my friend, and we always make them wait a little while before we admit them," said Moore. "It has a most beneficial effect upon their opinion of me as a writer. Independence is frequently accepted as indicative of personal affluence, as you doubtless know."

Mr. Smirk looked a trifle dazed, and then, abandoning his effort at comprehension, proceeded to get to his business without further delay.

"H-h-have you the m-money for the b-boots, Mr. M-M-Moore?" he inquired, holding his parcel behind him as though fearful that he might be robbed.

"Ah, sir," replied Moore, suavely, "money fits any hand, but my foot does n't fit every shoe. I 'll try them on if you are not too tired."

"Y-yes, s-sir," replied Smirk, with difficulty unwrapping his package.

"Your words are as slow as my rent," said Moore, sitting down.

The cobbler dropped heavily on his knees, and losing his balance, fell forward on Moore's lap almost knocking him off the stool.

"It is n't time to lie down yet," said the poet, restoring the tradesman to his equilibrium. "You forgot your prayers, sir."

Smirk succeeded in getting one of the boots on without much difficulty, but the other stuck fast in spite of the earnest endeavors of its maker.

"Is it a straight jacket you have there, Mr. Smirk?" demanded Moore.

"Don't trouble to answer me. It will take too long. You will have to have that stretched, sir."

"Y-yes, s-sir," replied the cobbler, "that will f-f-fix it fine."

"Take it along, Mr. Smirk, and have it attended to immediately,"

directed the poet. "When I try it on again, if it's all right, I 'll pay you for the pair. How long will it take you?"

"I 'll be b-back in l-less than an hour, Mr. M-M-Moore, and see you have your money r-ready."