Tom Moore Part 70

"Hush, your 'Ighness, they are near hat 'and."

The inmates of the garret could now plainly hear the scuffling steps of the men on the nearest roof as they slid and slipped on the inclines.

"Where the h--l can he have gone ter?" queried a piping voice.

"That's the wine merchant's clark," announced Buster to the Prince.

"Yes? What did you say his name was?"

"Hi did n't s'y," replied the boy guardedly.

Wales laughed pleasantly.

"You are a wise lad," said he. "What are they doing now?"

"You 've got 'em puzzled, your Tghness. They his puttin' their bloomink 'eads together. Now they 're a 'untin' agin."

"No trace of him here."

"He came this way, I 'll swear."

"Three he has put his mark on this night. Sweeny, Isaac, and Welch's Will."

"Will?"

"Aye, the lad with the bottle. He 's lying out on the eaves yet."

Buster gave his guest an admiring look. Such prowess was deserving of all commendation. Wales caught the glance, and chuckled softly.

Whatever shortcomings might be laid at the door of the gentleman destined to be the fourth George, cowardice was not one of them.

"Never mind, lads," said another voice. "He cawn't git away. The street is watched and all we have to do is to hunt him up."

"We hain't a doin' hit. Hat least not has I sees."

"Stop your croaking, Blount. D' ye think he could climb to that window?"

"Now for it," murmured Wales.

"Naw, 'ee hain't no bloomin' bird to fly hup ten foot o' wall, his 'ee?"

"Scatter, then. That way there, over to the right."

In obedience to this instruction the party were heard moving off with uncertain steps and Buster turned away from the window with a sigh of relief.

"Hi fawncies you 're sife, your Majesty," said he.

"Agreeable intelligence, I must admit," sighed the Prince, a.s.suming an easier position. "My subjects possess the virtue of persistence."

"Yessir, they dearly loves to club a swell cove hif they think 'ee his arfter their lydies."

Steps sounded in the hallway and the Prince rose quietly to his feet, prepared to renew the struggle.

"Don't be halarmed, your Tghness," said Buster, rea.s.suringly. "Hit's only Mr. Moore returning."

"Do not acquaint him with my presence," said Wales. "I will make myself known when I think best."

"Yes, your 'Ighness."

The Prince stepped behind the curtain separating the poet's bedchamber from the sitting-room and there awaited developments in silence. Moore opened the door and ushered in Mr. d.y.k.e.

"I thought Bessie was here," he said in surprise as he noted her absence.

"Mistress d.y.k.e went down to hinterview Mrs. Malone, sir," explained Buster, in a quandary as to how he should act. A prince, of course, could not be lightly disobeyed, but at the same time he felt qualms at the thought of what his master, not suspecting the presence of royalty, might chance to say.

Moore solved the problem for him unknowingly.

"Then go down," said he to Buster, "and tell my future wife that her former father is here."

Buster, relieved at the removal of responsibility, quickly left the room. Mr. d.y.k.e looked around at the bare, unsightly walls and sadly shook his head.

"To think I should bring you to this, Thomas," he said, remorsefully.

"Sit down, Mr. d.y.k.e, and have done with lamentations. So long as I do not complain, you surely have no reason to find fault," said Moore, cheerily.

"No, Thomas, I feel I must confess the truth to the Prince."

"What nonsense," said Moore, firmly. "No, no, Mr. d.y.k.e, for you to confess that you wrote the poem satirizing his Highness would be the height of folly. I doubt if it would do me any good, and it certainly would completely ruin you."

"I know," began the old man, but Moore interrupted him.

"I much prefer things as they are," he said. "Allow me to choose, Mr.

d.y.k.e."

"You do not know the pangs of conscience I have suffered."

"More likely it was indigestion, sir."

"You took the blame for my folly. I went free, but your brilliant career was cut short."

"Very short," admitted the poet, who was seated on the table, comfortably swinging his legs. "But the shortening is frequently the most important part of the dish."

"Your rising star was plucked cruelly from the sky before reaching its zenith."

"Between friends, you can omit the poetry," suggested Moore. "It seems like talking shop if I may say so without offence."

"I see you are resolved," said the old man weakly.

"Ah, yes," replied the poet, jumping off the table, and approaching his future father-in-law, he laid his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder.