"Does it, sir?" cried Buster, apparently delighted to hear it.
A knock at the door disturbed both servant and master, as well as arousing suspicions of the worst nature in the bosom of Lord Castlereagh, who growled ominously.
"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Moore, rising hurriedly from the table, which was saved from an upset by the quick hand of Buster. "Is it the rent again?"
Buster tiptoed to the door as the knock was repeated, and whispered, after listening:
"Hit's all right, sir. Who is it?"
"It's Mr. Dyke," declared the person desirous of entering.
Moore's face fell.
"With another treasonable poem, I suppose," he muttered. "Worse luck."
"Wot does you listen to 'em for?" asked Buster, disgustedly, leaving the door as Moore crossed to open it.
"Ah, that is the question," said the poet, softly.