"You done noble, Lord Castlereagh," said Buster, approvingly, at the same time seating himself upon one of the rickety chairs with which the attic was furnished. The comfort of this seat was immediately increased by his tipping it back on its rear legs, balance being maintained by the elevation of his feet to the top of the table near by. This was the lad's favorite position, but his enjoyment was speedily eclipsed by disaster, as the bulldog, for the moment quite carried away with exultation at his master's unqualified commendation made a violent effort to climb up in that worthy's lap, a manoeuvre resulting in both going over backwards with a crash.
"You willain!" ejaculated the boy, in great disgust. "Wot do you think Hi am? A hacro-a-bat, or wot?"
Lord Castlereagh apologized violently with his stumpy tail and seemed quite overwhelmed with regret.
"Has you means well, Hi forgives you, sir," said the Buster, rubbing his elbow, "but don't never turn no more flipflops in partnership wid Montgomery Julien Hethelbert Spinks, Esquire, or you may hexpect your walking papers. Hunderstand?"
Then, as Buster regained his feet, he remembered his master was in the adjoining bedroom asleep.
"My heye," he muttered. "We must 'ave disturbed 'im, hand 'im so tired and discouraged, too."
He listened for a moment, then, reassured by the silence reigning in the next room, nodded his head in satisfaction.
"'Ee 's still asleep," he remarked to the dog. "Dreaming no doubt. Hof wot, Hi wonders? Publishers? Not much, or 'ee 'd be a cussin'. Hof that 'aughty dame hover at Drury Lane, who won't kiss and make hup? That's hit, I 'll bet. Well, this his n't polishin' 'is boots, his it, Pupsy?"
Seizing a brush from the table, the boy began to rub a dilapidated topboot vigorously, meanwhile humming in cheerful discord a verse of a song, as yet unknown to the general public, but destined to become a permanent favorite with all lovers of music and poetry.
"'Twas the last rose hof summer left bloomink alone."