Lord Castlereagh became quite giddy, and, possessed by a puppyish fancy, decided upon an immediate and vigorous pursuit of his stumpy tail as the proceeding next in order, prosecuting his endeavor with such enthusiasm that he collided violently with everything in the room, including Moore and Buster, in the space of a moment, abandoning his enterprise only when winded as a result of running broadside on against a wall.
"Will you heat your dinner now, sir?" asked Buster.
"Dinner? What have you?"
"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."