"What happened?" he demanded.
"Mr. Dabble 'as fell downstairs, sir," replied the boy cheerfully. "His n't hit hawful. You never 'eard such langwidge. Hi 'me shocked, Hi am."
"You little devil, you tripped him up."
"'Ee can't prove it, so wot's the hodds if Hi did?" asked Buster, not at all abashed at his master's accusation. "Hi think 'ee must 'ave fell hover Mrs. Malone, sir."
"Are you hurt, Mr. Dabble?" called Moore over the balustrade.
"No," replied Mrs. Malone, from far below. "He's not hur-ted, but he has broken all his bottles and the stairs is running over with sherry."
"I 'd like to lick up the stairs," answered the poet. "Give him my sympathy, Mrs. Malone, and tell him I send my love to the twins."
"Have you the rint, Misther Moore?"
"I 'm not dressed yet, Mrs. Malone."
"Are you going to dress to-day?"