A knock on the door interrupted his song, but before he could reply to it, in marched Mrs. Malone with arms akimbo, and a determined expression making grave a face naturally good humored.
"Oh, hit's you, his it?" said Buster, regarding the woman with disapproving eye.
"I suppose you t'ought it was the Prince of Wales," replied Mrs. Malone.
"No, Hi didn't, 'cos w'y? 'Cos 'is Royal 'Ighness never hopens the door till Hi says come hin. 'Ee 's got better manners, 'ee 'as," replied the boy.
The landlady, not at all impressed, snapped her fingers scornfully
"That for you and the prince," she said, her nose in the air.
"Mrs. Malone, you 're a hanarchist," declared Buster, shocked beyond expression.
"Mr. Buster, you 're a liar," replied the landlady, promptly.
"You 're no judge, Mrs. Malone. We honly puts hup with hanarchy from Mr. Dyke, the poet, who comes 'ere and reads 'is treason reeking verses to Mr. Moore. One hanarchist on hour calling list is enough."
"You call me that name again, and I 'll smack you," exclaimed Mrs. Malone, pugnaciously.