"Eight--nine--ten-- Are you going?"
"Divil a fut will I."
"Twelve--thirteen--sixteen-- Now are you ready?"
"I 'm not, sorr."
"Eighteen--nineteen--!"
"Oh-h!" cried Mrs. Malone, intimidated at last by the poet's determination, "I will, Misther Moore, I will."
And gathering up her skirts she rushed for the door, reaching it just as Buster entered, the collision sending that young gentleman sprawling on the floor.
"Thank ye very kindly, ma'am," he remarked, saluting her in military fashion from his lowered altitude.
"Thot for your t'anks," she sniffed, and made her exit, signifying her scorn and dissatisfaction by the vigor with which she shut the door.
Moore emerged from behind the screen with a sigh of relief.