"Will you heat your dinner now, sir?" asked Buster.
"Leaving hout the rest of the bill of fare, there 's a slice hof 'am hand 'arf a loaf of bread, hand a little hof that Hirish wisky your sister sent you from Hireland fer your birthday."
Rummaging in the cupboard, Buster speedily brought to light the little stone jug containing what was left of the girl's gift, and as Moore seated himself at the table, which also served as desk when needed, the boy placed the whisky before him.
"Ah!" said the poet, his eyes glistening as he uncorked it. "That's the real old stuff. That's what puts the life into a man, eh, lad?"
As he spoke, Moore held up the jug, and shutting an eye endeavored to peer into it.
"There is n't much life left in it, Buster."
Then, taking a whiff, the poet smacked his lips, but placed the jug upon the table, its contents untouched.
"No," he said, shaking his head, "it is too precious to waste. I must save that, laddie."
"Yessir," said Buster, "fer some joyous hoccasion. 'Ave hanother smell, sir?"
"No, no," exclaimed Moore, waving the boy away. "Get thee behind me, Satan. Don't tempt me, Buster, for I am not over strong in that direction. Cork it up tightly. They say it evaporates and it's too good to have even a drop wasted."
Buster stowed the little jug in the depths of the cupboard and returned briskly to where Moore was eating his dinner.
"Hi 've seen the shoemakers, sir," he announced.
"Yessir. The boots is hall done hand ready to be delivered."
"Good enough," commented Moore. "Did you appoint a time for them to come?"
"Hi did that, sir. One will be 'ere at four, the hother at twenty minutes past the hower," replied the youth, shaking his finger warningly at Lord Castlereagh, who manifested more interest in the eatables than was in strict accordance with good manners.
"First rate, Buster," said Moore, approvingly. "Is there any other news?"
The boy hesitated a moment, but with an effort continued:
"Yessir, that ain't hall. Hi 'as a confession to make, sir."
"You have?" said Moore in a surprised tone. "Well, let's have it, my lad."
"One moment, Buster," exclaimed the poet, an expression of alarm coming over his face. "One moment in which to compose myself. Now I am calmer. Tell me, Buster, tell me you have n't secretly married Mrs. Malone?"