Moore looked at the boy gravely and got a smile in return which in extent could compare not unfavorably with one of Lord Castlereagh's most expansive yawns.
"Buster," said the poet, slowly and sadly, "there is something I feel it my duty to say to you. Let us be in sober earnest for once, my lad."
"Yes, sir," assented the boy uneasily, stooping to pull the bulldog's ragged ear. "Hat your service, Mr. Moore."
Moore was silent for a moment, and when he did speak it was with an effort quite apparent.
"Buster," he said, softly, "it is time we came to an understanding. I am head over ears in debt as you know. I owe every tradesman in the neighborhood, and as many out of it as I could get introduced to. I am a failure as a writer, bitter as it is for me to acknowledge it. Only a little while longer, and it will be the streets and starvation, Buster."
"Don't, sir, don't," said the boy, a queer little break in his voice, but Moore continued:
"I 'm wronging you in keeping you with me, laddie. Don't waste any more of your time with me. I am only holding you back."
"Hand if Hi went, sir," asked the boy, pitifully, "wot would become hof you?"
"I?" murmured Moore, choking back a sob. "There is n't much doubt, is there?"
"Who 'd black your boots for you, hand 'eat your shaving water, hand listen to your poetry, sir?" demanded Buster, wiping his eyes with his shirt sleeve. "Blow me hif I 'ave n't a cold in me 'ead. My heyes is runnin' somethink hawful hall day."