Tom Moore Part 6

"Mean it? It's poor justice my words do your beauty, Bessie dear. You have the sauciest, darlingest, scornfullest nose, and such a mouth!

Why, to look at it makes my lips pucker."

"A lemon would do the same," observed Bessie, foiling Moore's attempt to s.n.a.t.c.h a kiss by sitting back in her chair. "You need not think I believe all your nonsense, Thomas Moore."

"Don't you believe what I have just said, Bessie?"

"Not I. You need n't flatter yourself."

"Why needn't I? Will you do it for me?"

"I have something better to do," replied Bessie, paring another quill with much vigor.

"That is what I call a cutting remark," said Moore, looking at the knife.

Bessie sighed, and temporarily abandoned her labors.

"Tom Moore," she said solemnly, "why will you make such awful puns?"

"Practice makes perfect, my dear. If I keep on, some day I may make a good one."

"I wonder if there ever was a good pun?"

"Keep on wondering. You look like an angel pondering over the fit of her wings."

"Tom, that is sacrilegious."

"You 're wrong, Bessie, it's only poetry."

Bessie frowned. Like all good women, she did not like to hear religion spoken of lightly, so she rebuked the erring Thomas with a glance.

"You are pretty even when you frown, Bessie," remarked the unregenerate versifier.

Bessie attempted to look doubtful as to the truth of this last statement.

"Why should n't you believe me? Has n't your mirror showed you day after day what I am telling you?"

As he spoke Moore took her hand in his, not noticing that one slender finger was wound round by a bandage. Bessie gave a little cry of pain.

"What is the matter?"

"You hurt me," she answered, exhibiting her finger.

"I 'm more than sorry, Bessie, but what ails your pinkie?"

"I burned my hand."

"Shall I burn the other for you?" asked Moore, extending his in invitation.

"How could you?" she demanded, suspecting a trap.

"Why," said Moore, "with a kiss half as warm as my heart."

Bessie giggled, then tried to resume her dignity, but Moore had no intention of letting such an advantage pa.s.s unutilized, and, seizing her uninjured hand, planted a hearty smack in its warm palm.

"_Mr. Moore!_"

"Mistress d.y.k.e!"

"I shan't allow you to stay here if you cannot behave in a sensible manner," she threatened.

"I'm not sensible?"

"Not now."

"Then, if I am not sensible, I am unconscious, and, if I am unconscious, I am not responsible for what I do."

Moore with this justification made a sudden attempt to embrace Bessie, who, always prepared for such lawlessness, evaded his outstretched arms and retaliated by p.r.i.c.king him with her knife, a proceeding which resulted in the instant removal of the poet's person from her desk, accompanied by an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n that sounded suspiciously like profanity.

"What did you say, Tom?" asked Bessie with a gurgle of satisfaction.

For once she had the better of her resourceful admirer.

"You will have to guess that, Bessie," he remarked. "Do you think that is a nice way to treat a young man?"

"Oh, it was only a joke," said Bessie, quite unrepentant.

"Your jokes are too pointed," said Moore. "After this please refrain from any that are sharp enough to go clean through doe-skin breeches and I 'll thank you."

The door opened suddenly and d.i.c.ky, still resplendent in red shirt and golden curls, appeared, carrying a book. He halted on the threshold and looked inquiringly at his teacher.

"Egad, it's the cherub!" exclaimed Moore.

Taking courage, d.i.c.ky toddled in, book in hand, and approached Moore, who gazed wonderingly down at him.

"Well, my lad, what do you want?"

"Please, sir," piped d.i.c.ky, "I wants help wid me lessons," and he held up his book. Bessie stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth to smother her laughter, while a look of understanding came into Moore's eyes.

"Oh, you want help, do you?" said the latter.

"Yis, sir, wid me aris'metic," announced d.i.c.ky, laboring earnestly to bring forth the big word and catching some of the edges with his teeth in spite of the exertion. "It's a sum, sir."

"A sum indeed?" echoed Moore.

"Yis, sir, and the answer is one shillin', sir."

Moore looked over at Bessie, who almost choked and had to seek relief in coughing. Then he regarded the recently arrived blackmailer with a glance that he vainly endeavored to make severe, but d.i.c.ky perceived the twist of mirth at the sides of his victim's mouth, and took heart accordingly.

"A shilling, my young Jack Sheppard?" said Moore, feeling in his pocket.