Then as Moore dropped into the old arm-chair beside the hearth, the boy, resolved to wake him from his unhappy mood, burst into song, rendering one of his master's most recent productions in a style worthy of a scissor-grinding machine.
"Horf in the stilly night
H'ere slumber's chains 'as bound me,
The shadows hof hother days
Comes a-gathering round me."
Moore, roused to mental activity by the racket, sat bolt upright in dismay.
"Buster!" he cried, reprovingly, but the boy continued at the top of his lungs as though he had not heard.
"The smiles, the tears,
Hof boyish years--"
Bang! came a book against the door from across the room, missing Buster, who had dodged, by a few inches.
"For Heaven's sake stop that caterwauling," cried Moore. "You put my teeth on edge."
Lord Castlereagh became victim of a hallucination that the book thrown by Moore was a rat of large size, and was fast shaking the life out of it when Buster descended upon him and effected a rescue.
"Blow me, Lord Castlereagh, if you hain't a knocking the stuffin' hout of 'The Rivals,'" he remarked reprovingly.
"Out of the rivals?" said Moore, with a laugh. "Faith, I 'd like to try the same game on mine, Buster. It's the simplest way, after all; isn't it, doggie?"