Tom Moore Part 65

"Hi hain't smart henuff," said Buster.

"It is of no importance, Tom," said Brummell, graciously.

"Since when?" demanded Moore in surprise. "How is that, Sherry?"

"I never drink," said the elder man, waving aside the idea of alcoholic indulgence with a gesture of fine contempt.

"No?" asked the poet, wonderingly. "Oh, I suppose you have it rubbed into your skin by your valet."

At this moment Bessie, having finished setting the table, sat down in the chair pulled out for her by Sheridan and the Beau in gallant compet.i.tion, and the supper began.

"Will you say grace, Brummell?" asked Moore.

"Say it yourself," drawled the Arbiter of Fas.h.i.+on, smiling lazily at his hostess.

"But, his Highness thinks me a graceless rogue," objected the poet, "so it would be an act of treason for me to prove him a liar."

"Well, then, I 'll say it meself," volunteered Sheridan, with a wink at Moore.

"Good man. Hush, now, every one."

Sheridan rose from his chair and leaning over took possession of the bread plate.

"Ah," said Moore, knowingly, "then it is to be 'Give us this day our daily bread,' eh, Sherry?"

"You are away off the scent, Tommy," responded the dramatist in a superior tone. "Nothing so conventional would be appropriate for this festive occasion."

"Do go on, Sherry," advised Brummell, "I am growing disgracefully hungry."

"Anything to oblige, Beau. See, friends,

'There's bread here for four of us: Thank G.o.d, there's no more of us!'"

Sheridan sat down amidst the laughing approval of the others.

"That," observed Moore, "is what I call a curst fine bit of prayer-making. Sherry and I like our prayers like our liquor--concentrated."

"Your remark is a trifle paradoxical," commented Brummell. "Yes, Mistress Bessie, sugar and milk both."

"Brummell has a sweet tooth," said Sheridan, taking the cup Bessie pa.s.sed him.

"And Bessie has a sweet mouth," said Moore, b.u.t.tering his bread generously.

"I suppose you know all about that, Tom?"

"Trust me for that, Sherry."

"That sort of credit is easy for an Irishman to obtain," said the old gentleman.

"With Bessie?" inquired Moore. "That shows you have never tried, Sherry."

"He does n't know whether I have or not, does he, Mistress Bessie?"

"Of course he does n't," chimed in the girl, coquettishly. "We don't have to tell him all our little frolics, do we?"

"I 'd hate to if I hoped to retain his friends.h.i.+p," chuckled the wit.

"It is like confident youth to imagine itself ever the only favored."

"Look here," said Moore, aggressively, "there will be enough of this supper, such as it is, to go around handsomely without trying to spoil my appet.i.te with your base innuendoes, you old scandal-school maker."

"He is jealous," observed Sheridan. "Just have the kindness to remember my age, Thomas."

"How can I when you yourself do not?" asked the poet, slyly. "Brummell, pa.s.s the b.u.t.ter. If it's stronger than you are, shout for help."

"You wrong the article," said the Beau, handing over the desired plate.

"It's quiescence is most amiable."

"That reminds me," Moore remarked thoughtfully, "of a scheme I have for increasing the volume of the milk given by the cow."

"Volume?" repeated Sheridan. "D' ye mean the way the tale is presented to the public?"

"Well, if you let the bovine offspring remain too adjacent it's bound in calf the lacteal fluid would be," replied Moore.

"Faith, the animal should be brought to book for that," returned Sheridan.

"She 'd probably turn pale at the thought and kick over the cream,"

retorted Moore.

"Dear me!" cried Bessie, "what brilliant gentlemen, are they not, Mr.

Brummell?"

"Yes, Mistress d.y.k.e," answered the Beau, "_they are not_."

Bessie laughed at the unexpected termination of the Beau's remark.

"A couple of silly punsters, 'pon my honor," sighed the exquisite, nibbling his bread daintily.

"I think, Sherry," said Moore, "after that rebuke we had better be less witty. I 'll tell my story later on. The bill of fare includes chicken, gentlemen."

"Oh, Tom," said Bessie, shocked, "how can you fib so?"

"In the sh.e.l.l, Bessie, in the sh.e.l.l," explained the host, holding up an egg. "Cold and hard, but so young it would melt in your mouth. Then comes bread-and-b.u.t.ter and tea."

"My favorite dish, believe me," declared Brummell.

"Then comes tea and bread-and-b.u.t.ter. Next, some cups and saucers and knives and forks."

"D'ye think we are ostriches?" demanded Sheridan.