The bulldog barked exultantly catching the key of hope from his master's voice.
"Hof corse," said Buster, "when worst comes to worst we can keep the place by setting Lord Castlereagh to watch the stairs. No landlady hor bailiff wud hever git by 'im, sir."
"That would be what is known as a dogged resistance of authority," said Moore, chuckling at his bad joke. "We must n't come to that, lad."
"Hall right, sir, we won't."
Moore returned to his temporarily abandoned repast and speedily ate his fill, Buster and the dog sharing alike in the debris, which was more than enough to afford satisfaction to them both.
"Now, I 'll try to work," said Moore, arming himself with a huge quill, the feathered end of which being well chewed, seemed indicative of having furnished food for reflection to its owner in the immediate past. He sat down at the table, scrupulously cleaned and dusted by Buster after he had removed the dishes, and, drawing a blank sheet of paper towards him, dipped the pen in the ink, preparatory to calling upon his inspiration. But that was as far as he got, for the desired idea failed to materialize.
"Hang it!" he said, throwing down the pen in disgust, "I can't write a line. How can I expect to when nothing is in my mind but Bessie? Ah, Bessie, Bessie, you 've taken my heart; now you rob me of my fancy. It will be my life next, if I 'm not careful."
"Can't you think hof nothin', Mr. Moore?" asked Buster, anxiously.
"I 'm thinking of the greatest thing in the world, lad."
"Ho, Hi knows wot that is: love."