_TOM MOORE HAS A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT AND AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR_

Mrs. Malone opened the door suddenly, accompanying this action with a vigorous gesture intended to represent an apology for the liberty she took in omitting the knock. By this it can be easily seen that under Buster's tuition the manners of the landlady were improving.

"A gentleman to see you, Misther Moore."

"Show the gentleman in, Mrs. Malone," said the poet, adding in an undertone to Buster, "This must be a reception we are giving. We have joined society without knowing it, lad."

"This way, sorr," announced Mrs. Malone, with an elephantine duck, this being the best imitation nature permitted her to give of a courtesy.

Immediately a little, square-shaped man with an expressionless face from which protruded two beady eyes in much the same manner that raisins brighten and decorate the exterior surface of a plum-pudding, entered, striding as pompously as though his height were considerably over six feet instead of but a trifle under five. His face was clean shaven and consistently grave and solemn down to the lower lip, where his chin made a sudden and undignified attempt to obtain complete concealment in the folds of his neckcloth. However, all in all, he was a neat little man, though far from a beauty.

"Er--er--ahem," he began with a little cough, meanwhile looking back and forth from Moore to Buster as Mrs. Malone waddled out of the attic, "_which_ is Mr. Thomas Moore?"

"I am, sir," replied the poet, taking no notice of the new-comer's intentional rudeness. "What do you wish with me?"

"I--er--er--ahem--come from Mr. McDermot, the publisher. My name is Gannon."

"Indeed?" cried Moore. "Won't you have a chair, Mr. Gannon?"

"I will, thank you," replied the clerk, for such he was, seating himself with much dignity, a performance given a humorous tinge by the unsuccessful attempt he made to cross his fat little legs. "I have called at Mr. McDermot's request to see you about your poems."

"You are more than welcome, I am sure," replied Moore.

"Mr. McDermot has read the ma.n.u.script volume you submitted, and takes great pleasure in saying he has never read anything better; _great_ pleasure."

Moore gave a sigh of relief and grew quite light-headed with delight.

Here was real appreciation. Genius was about to be recognized at last.

Ugly, ill-tempered, little Gannon became in the poet's eyes suddenly invested with the beautiful characteristics and perfect exterior of a cherub, a little over-grown and shapeless, perhaps, but nevertheless cherubic. He wondered how he could for the moment have so greatly disliked this herald of prosperity.

"Mr. Gannon, you are thirsty, I know," stammered Moore. "You must be after such a walk. I insist that you drink with me, sir. What shall it be?"

"Since you insist I 'll try a little port," said the clerk, obligingly.

"Unfortunately," replied the poet, "that is one thing I have n't in my possession. I'm like a loaded ship, sir, just out of port. But I 'll give you something better."

"Will you?"

"I 've the finest drink in the world in that cupboard, sir. One that will make life seem like a dream of blue sky and roses to you."

"Er--er--ahem,--I am a _married_ man," observed Mr. Gannon, doubtfully.

"This will enable you to forget that," said Moore in a rea.s.suring tone.

"I hope not," replied Gannon, suddenly waxing confidential. "The only cloud in my domestic horizon was caused by just such a slip of memory.

What a recollection women have for such lapses."

"For theirs or for yours, Mr. Gannon?"

"For mine, Mr. Moore, for mine," hastily replied the clerk. "Ah, women--er--er--ahem--are angels, sir, angels."

"No doubt," said Moore, pleasantly, as he poured out the whisky, "of one kind or _another_. This, sir, is the dew of heaven. You 'll never beat this for tipple, Mr. Gannon. When I place this before you I show you the greatest compliment in my power. Believe me, it is most precious, dear sir, for it is the essence of Ireland. Each drop a tinted diamond.

Your health, Mr. Gannon."

"Thank you, Mr. Moore, thank you," replied the clerk in a flattered tone, raising his gla.s.s to his mouth. But the first swallow of the fiery liquid sent him into such a paroxysm of coughing that Moore felt compelled to slap him on the back hastily.

"That's the way to drink such whisky," said the poet, approvingly. "It makes it last longer."

"Er--er--ahem," replied the clerk, taking advantage of Moore's own imbibing to empty the contents of his gla.s.s over his shoulder unperceived by his host. Buster, being at this particular moment just behind the little clerk, received the whisky full in the face, and feeling compelled on his master's account to resist the belligerent impulse which demanded he should obtain immediate satisfaction from the cause of his discomfiture, he sought with a smothered oath the seclusion of the stairs, an exile into which he was immediately followed by the bulldog.

"What ails the lad?" asked Moore in astonishment. "I wonder if he is n't well?"

"Ahem--er--Mr. Moore," began the clerk in a businesslike tone, "permit me to deliver to you the message of my employer. I really am pressed for time, sir."

"Go ahead," said Moore, seating himself on the opposite side of the table near which his guest was sitting. "You may command me, Mr.

Gannon."

"Mr.--er--er--McDermot--ahem--wishes me to inform you that your poetry is delightful. The language is beautiful."

"Yes?" said Moore, interrogatively, now in the seventh heaven of delight. "Really, Mr. Gannon?"

"Each metaphor he declares is as delicate as it is charming."

"Yes?"

"Your rhymes are perfect, Mr. Moore."

"Yes?"

"In fact Mr. McDermot wishes me to a.s.sure you that the highest praise can be lavished on your work, Mr. Moore, the highest praise."

"He is too kind, Mr. Gannon, he is too kind," cried the poet, rising in his excitement.

"He was delighted with your book, but--"

Mr. Gannon paused, and looked solemn.

"But what?" asked Moore, eagerly.

"He cannot publish it."

Moore stood looking stupidly at the little clerk for a moment quite dazed.

"Can't publish it?" he repeated slowly. "Can't publish it! Why not, sir?"

"Your work is most worthy," answered Mr. Gannon, "but who are you?"

"I don't--quite--know," faltered Moore, stunned by the sudden casting down of his so recently raised hopes.