"Yessir, that ain't hall. Hi 'as a confession to make, sir."
"You have?" said Moore in a surprised tone. "Well, let's have it, my lad."
"Yessir--"
"One moment, Buster," exclaimed the poet, an expression of alarm coming over his face. "One moment in which to compose myself. Now I am calmer. Tell me, Buster, tell me you have n't secretly married Mrs. Malone?"
"Married 'ell!" exclaimed the lad, his nose turning up in disdain at the idea.
"'T would be much the same thing, I 'm thinking," chuckled Moore. "Well, that is one peril escaped. Go on with your confession."
"You know that pome you sent me with to the Times, sir?" began Buster, still ill at ease.
"'The Last Rose of Summer,' wasn't it?"
"Yessir. Hi did n't take it to the Times."
"You did n't? Why not, Buster?"