Tom Moore Part 59

The lad wilted.

"Ho, don't, sir, don't. Hit makes me _that_ fretful," he said pleadingly. "Hi 'll reform, really Hi will."

"Do so, then," said Moore. "And remember, if I ever hear of your fighting again, I 'll never call you anything but Montgomery."

"Yessir," replied Buster, with a low bow. "Hi 'ears, hand to 'ear his to hobey. Hi retires from the prize ring to-day, hand my champeenship Hi resigns to the red-'eaded butcher boy hacross the w'y. 'Ere 's the post, sir."

Moore took the two letters from the lad and sat down beside the table to examine them.

"From publishers, h'aren't they?" said Buster interestedly.

Moore nodded.

"That they are, lad," he answered, opening the first as he spoke. "Ah, here is an inclosure."

"Hinside?" asked Buster, eagerly.

"Where else?" demanded the poet. "Did you think it would be wrapped around the outside? From the _Gazette_. One pound. Good. A pound is better than ten shillings any day."

"Ha munth hagow hit 'ud 'ave been ten pun," said Buster, shaking his round head.

"But it's nine well lost," answered Moore, adding to himself, "aye, well lost, since it is for Bessie's sake."

He found a note inside and read it aloud.

"MR. THOMAS MOORE--

"DEAR SIR,--Inclosed find one pound in payment for your poem, 'Inconstancy,' which, owing to your present unpopularity, we feel compelled to print under the name Thomas Little."

"Hi likes their imperence," cried Buster in disgust. "'Little,' indeed!"

"That accounts for the size of the check, no doubt," observed the poet.

"Two days ago it was 'Tom Brown;' next week it will be 'Tom Green' or 'Tom Fool.' However, it does n't matter if Tom Moore gets the money."

"Hi 'll let 'em use my nime," suggested the lad in n.o.ble self-sacrifice.

"My folks his all dead, so the publis'ty won't kill 'em. Montgomery Julien Hethelbert would look grite hin print."

"I quite agree with you," said Moore, laughing. "Ah, Buster, me boy, it's sweet to be back in the old place. I 'd not give it, bare and ugly as it is, for one of the fine places I 've wined and dined in since leaving it, if Bessie were only here to brighten it for me."

Buster looked around him comprehensively.

"Hit does need cleaning hup a bit," he said apologetically. "Hi 'll see wot Hi can do to-morrer."

"And you say there has been no letter for me from her?" continued Moore.

"Not one letter, sir," replied Buster.

"And you have n't seen her, Buster?"

The boy gave a yell of pain, and slapped his hand to his face, at the same time executing a double shuffle with his feet.

"What ails you, lad?"' asked the poet in astonishment.

"My toot' haches me," explained Buster, who had invented this complaint by way of diverting his master's inquiries.

"Fall in love, Buster," advised Moore, "and the pain in your heart will make you forget the pain in your tooth."

"Hit's better now, sir," announced the boy, jubilant that he had kept his master from all knowledge of Mistress d.y.k.e without real denial of her visits.

"Now for the other letter," said Moore.

This was the bulky package. Buster's suspicions that it inclosed a disappointment proved not unfounded, for there was a ma.n.u.script poem folded within.

"Humph," grunted Moore, scornfully. "What bad taste they display.

"'MR. THOMAS MOORE--

"'DEAR SIR,--In view of your present unpopularity--'

Oh, I hate that d--n word, Buster."

"Hit is a bit narsty," a.s.sented the boy.

"--we feel obliged to return your poem ent.i.tled 'To Bessie.'"

"Confound them!"

Unfolding the poem, Moore ran his eye over its neatly written lines.

At this moment the door behind him opened softly, and Bessie crept in as quietly as any mouse. Buster saw her, and, leaning over the table, asked his master to read him the rejected verses.

"Certainly, Buster, since you wish it," said Moore, good-naturedly. "It will help on your literary education."

"That hit will, sir," said Buster, stepping where he could motion Bessie to remain silent without being detected by his master.

"'To Bessie,'" announced Moore, beginning to read, little thinking that the girl was so near.

"Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare, Life's cup before me lay, Unless thy love were mingled there I 'd spurn the draught away.

"Without thy smile the monarch's lot To me were dark and lone, While, with it, even the humblest cot Were brighter than his throne.

"Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs For me would have no charms, My only world thy gentle eyes, My throne thy circling arms."