Tom Moore Part 25

Mr. d.y.k.e, thus forcibly rebuked, grew red in the face, and seemed for a moment about to hotly point out the disregard paid by his young friend to the difference in their ages, but his better nature prevailed as his sense of justice showed him plainly that Moore was in the right; so, after a short silence, he accepted his host's criticism in the same spirit it was offered.

"You are right, Thomas," said he, reluctantly, "quite right, my lad; but remember that I never read such verses to any one but you. I must admit I thoroughly enjoy giving occasional vent to my real feelings. It's like throwing a load off my heart, Thomas."

"I know how you feel," replied Moore, sagely, "but take my advice, and throw off no more loads that way."

"Thomas, I won't. I promise I 'll not write another."

"Good, Mr. d.y.k.e," exclaimed Moore, gladly. "It is delighted I am to hear you say that. Ah, sir, if I were where you are, I 'd run no such danger, I can tell you."

"Shall I read it to you, Thomas?" asked the old gentleman, resolved to extract all possible enjoyment from this bit of treason, since it was to have no successor.

"Leave it with me," suggested Moore, endeavoring to postpone its perusal to the last moment possible. "I 'll read it to myself and study your method thoroughly. It will be a greater help to me that way, you know, and I am anxious to learn, sir."

d.y.k.e gave a flattered cough or two and rose to go.

"You must not be discouraged, Thomas," he said in a kindly patronizing tone, "your verses have merit, real merit. I 'll stake my reputation upon it."

"It's kind of you to say that," said Moore, gratefully, though in secret vastly amused, "a successful man like you."

"Oh, I mean it, Thomas, I mean it. Why, some day I 'd not be surprised if you were rated as a poet almost as high as Robin d.y.k.e."

"You don't mean it, sir?"

"Almost, I said _almost_," repeated the old gentleman, fearful lest he had raised hope too high in his fellow author's breast.

"I heard you," said Moore, dryly, while Buster and Lord Castlereagh shared their indignation at the fireplace to which they had retired.

"I must get along now," announced Mr. d.y.k.e, as though desirous of gently breaking the news of his approaching departure. "Oh, you will laugh your sides sore when you read that poem, Thomas."

"Will I?" asked Moore, doubtfully.

Mr. d.y.k.e turned at the door with a chuckle.

"I almost envy you the fun, my lad. Oh, it's monstrous witty."

And fairly shaking with merriment at the mental contemplation of his own humor, the old gentleman toddled down the stairs, quite at peace with the world at large and even more satisfied with himself.

"My best love to Bessie," Moore called after him, leaning over the banisters.

"Have you the rint?" came from below in the unmistakably Hibernian accents of Mrs. Malone.

"No, I have n't, have you?" shouted the disgusted poet, and hastening back into the room, he shut the door.

"Rank halmost as 'igh as 'im," exclaimed Buster, indignantly. "Well Hi likes 'is himpudence. Say, Mr. Moore, Hi thinks that hold cove is daffy."

"They say genius is akin to madness," replied Moore, stowing the poem away in the drawer of the table, where he kept many productions of his own.

"Then 'ee 's been achin' a long time," replied the boy, misunderstanding the meaning of his master's remark.

Moore laughed gently and did not correct him.

_Chapter Ten_

_IN WHICH THE LANDLADY IS PLAYED A TRICK_

In the meantime Mrs. Malone, having pounded upstairs, halted in front of the door, not from politeness, but to regain her breath. Having paused, she decided to knock, unconsciously mindful of Buster's scathing rebuke.

"Who is there?" asked Buster.

"Me, for me money," responded the landlady, determinedly. "Is there any sin in asking for what is due me?"

"As much sin as there is use," muttered Moore. "I can't go over the roof like this, Buster. I have it. Tell her I am taking a bath."

"Yessir," said the boy, starting towards the door as Moore sought shelter with pail and pitcher of water behind an old screen standing in the corner of the room.

"My _cold_ bath, Buster," whispered Moore.

"Yessir."

"And, Buster?"

"Yessir."

"You get out when she comes in."

"Hi will, sir," responded Buster preparing to open the door.

"Am I to die of old age in my own hall?" demanded Mrs. Malone, waxing indignant.

"You 'as your choice hof complaints, _madam_," replied Buster, opening the door.

"You limb!" said she, misunderstanding the lad's unusual politeness. "I 'll not have any half-baked omadhaun cursing me."

"Curse you, Mrs. Malone? Himpossible, hon my word of honer. W'y Hi 'as narthin but blessin's fer you, _sweetheart_."

Mrs. Malone aimed a blow at Buster's ear, and, as he dodged successfully, swung half around with the misspent energy of her effort.

Buster sought safety in the hall, but thrust his head in the doorway.

"Mr. Moore his taking 'is cold bawth," he announced, loudly.

A splas.h.i.+ng of water coming from behind the screen corroborated the lad's statement.

"Taking his bath, is he?" said Mrs. Malone. "It's the only thing he can take widout getting arresthed."

"Hit's 'is _hown_, Mrs. Malone."