"Oh, Buster, my boy," he said breathlessly, "there is nothing like cold water for starting the circulation. What would I do without my tubbing?"
"She 'll be back hagain, sir," said Buster, sighing at the thought. "Hi wish 'er hold man was halive. 'Ee would n't be so 'ard hon us, would 'ee?"
"Well, I am not so sure about that," answered Moore. "He was very fond of the bottle, was Mr. Malone. Usually he 'd not get up till noon, leaving us to fight and play around the schoolroom till he got over the effects of the night before. Then he 'd wallop the lot of us for waking him up so early."
"Was she fond of 'im?"
"She was, Buster! Much more, probably, than she would have been if he had been a better husband."
"Just himagine Bridget Malone a-courtin'. D'ye suppose has 'ow the hold gal remembers it, sir?"
"I would n't be surprised, Buster. Such memories grow dearer as old age approaches. By the Saints, lad, you 've given me an idea!"
"'As I?" said the boy in surprise. "Hi didn't know has I 'ad one."
"You have fixed it so I can stand her off for the rent or my name is not Thomas Moore," answered the poet cheerfully. "We 'll not have to move this day, Buster."
"Ho, that's fine, sir. Me and Lord Castlereagh 'ates moving. Does n't we, pup?"