Tom Moore Part 29

"I am not going yet, and my name is Dabble, not Dibble."

Moore waved Buster back as that pugnacious youth was about to lay violent hands on the clerk.

"Your father is responsible for your name. He is much to blame, Dibble.

If I were you, I 'd sue the old man for damages."

"I see you have no intention of paying this bill, Mr. Moore," said the clerk, abandoning hope of collection.

"You must be a mind reader," observed Moore. "You could make a fortune exhibiting your gifts in public, sir. Now, my dear fellow, before you go, just to show there is no hard feeling between us personally, even if I owe your employer, have a drink with me."

"But," began Dabble.

"I 'll take no denial," said Moore, winningly. "Come, sir, you shan't refuse me. Buster, bring forth the precious liquor and we will do honor to our guest."

"I never drink a drop," expostulated the clerk, telling an outrageous lie incidentally.

"Well," said Moore, with a laugh, "I never drop a drink, so we cancel that objection. We will have a tiny wet together socially as two honest gentlemen should. We will drink health to Mrs. Dibble and all the little Dubbles."

"There is no little Dubbles, sir," answered the clerk, mollified in spite of himself by Moore's charming manner.

"What? No twins? That is an oversight, sir. Oh, well, we 'll be sanguine, Dibble, for there is no telling what may occur in the future.

Accidents will happen in the best-regulated families, and I am sure yours is one of the best, so cheer up and don't despair. Buster, you devil, what is keeping you?"

"Hall ready, sir, hall ready," replied the boy, who, having extracted the cork from one of the stolen bottles, had carefully wrapped a cloth around it, so that the label would not betray his secret to the enemy while he was filling the gla.s.ses.

Moore, taking for granted that the beverage decanted by Buster was the poteen he had previously denied himself, watched Dabble eagerly as that gentleman raised his gla.s.s to his lips, expecting the usual cough and sputter to follow the first swallow of the fiery liquid. In this he was disappointed, for the clerk drank calmly and with evident enjoyment.

"What do you think of that whisky, Mr. Dabble?"

"Whisky, sir? This is sherry," answered the clerk, "and quite a respectable quality too."

"How 's that?" asked Moore, in surprise; then, sipping the contents of his own gla.s.s, he found that his guest was quite right. Meanwhile Buster, from the concealment afforded him behind Mr. Dabble, was making frantic gesticulations to his master, finally succeeding in catching his eye.

"What ails the boy?" muttered Moore, rarely puzzled to understand how his empty cupboard could have furnished the refreshment Buster had just put before them.

"Eh?" said Mr. Dabble, sipping his sherry in a manner that gave the lie to his recent announcement of total abstinence.

"Sherry it is," said Moore. "Fault of the label, Mr. Dabble. Your best health, sir."

"It is very fair sherry, Mr. Moore, very fair," declared the clerk, condescendingly, "but pardon me if I say it is hardly up to our level of quality."

"Is that so, Mr. Dabble?"

"Yes, sir. Now I have some really superior sherry in my basket there."

"Oh, law!" exclaimed Buster in an undertone. "'Ere is where Hi takes to cover."

And he tiptoed out of the doorway unnoticed.

"You don't say so, Mr. Dabble?" replied Moore in an interested tone.

"Indeed I do, Mr. Moore. I think I have time to show you," said Dabble, rising as he spoke.

"By all means do so."

Dabble pulled his watch from his pocket as he crossed to the basket.

"Gracious!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so late. I have n't a moment to spare. Good-day, sir.

"Good-day," said Moore politely, as the clerk picked up the basket, not noticing the difference in weight in the hurry of the moment, and opening the door closed by Buster in making his escape, nodded a last good-bye to the poet before going.

Left to himself, Moore took another drink from his gla.s.s.

"Where the devil," thought he, "did Buster get that wine? That boy is certainly a wonder."

A tremendous crash was heard in the hall below. Moore ran to the door, and leaning over the banister sought to discover the cause of the racket as up the stairs came Buster, running lightly in his stockinged feet as any cat. Moore seized him by the arm.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"Mr. Dabble 'as fell downstairs, sir," replied the boy cheerfully. "His n't hit hawful. You never 'eard such langwidge. Hi 'me shocked, Hi am."

"You little devil, you tripped him up."

"'Ee can't prove it, so wot's the hodds if Hi did?" asked Buster, not at all abashed at his master's accusation. "Hi think 'ee must 'ave fell hover Mrs. Malone, sir."

"Are you hurt, Mr. Dabble?" called Moore over the bal.u.s.trade.

"No," replied Mrs. Malone, from far below. "He's not hur-ted, but he has broken all his bottles and the stairs is running over with sherry."

"I 'd like to lick up the stairs," answered the poet. "Give him my sympathy, Mrs. Malone, and tell him I send my love to the twins."

"Have you the rint, Misther Moore?"

"I 'm not dressed yet, Mrs. Malone."

"Are you going to dress to-day?"

"I am surprised at your indelicacy in asking such an immodest question of an innocent and unmarried young man," replied Moore reprovingly. "If you keep on I 'll feel it my duty to mention your behavior to Father O'Houlihan. Oh, it is shocked he would be, Mrs. Malone."

"Niver mind," answered the landlady. "You lave Father O'Houlihan to me."

"I don't know whether the good man will be safe in your hands after this morning's revelation, Mrs. Malone. He don't look over strong."

"Wait till I get hold of you, you rapscallion."

"No, I can't wait," said Moore, slamming the door as he returned to his own apartment.

"Buster!"