"Faith," said Moore, "it is a good thing the hall is dark. They must have met on the stairs. It's a wonder we escaped bloodshed, Buster."
"I s-say, is-s-s Mr. M-M-Moore at h-home?" repeated the shoemaker, with a hiccup that was plainly perceptible within the attic.
"Phew!" exclaimed Buster in an undertone, recoiling from the keyhole. "Hole Smirk his loaded hup to 'is hears. You won't need to waste hany of the Hadmiral's sherry hon 'im, sir. 'Ee 's fragrant, sir, that's wot 'ee his, hand it hain't no bloomin' new mown 'ay wot flavors 'im, Hi tells yer."
"Admit the gentleman," said Moore, opening the windows to their widest extent. "A friend in need is a friend indeed."
"A friend in soak his more like it," murmured the boy, opening the door obediently.
The big, bald-headed, redfaced man who had egged Bekowsky on to disaster earlier in the afternoon staggered in with an oath and a hiccup so entangled on his lips that neither he nor his hosts made any effort to translate his greeting.
"Good-day, Mr. Smirk," observed Moore, pleasantly. "You are looking well, sir."
"T-t-t-hat is-s n-no ex-c-cuse f'r keeping me w-w-waiting a month in the h-h-hall," replied the intoxicated tradesman, thickly, endeavoring to look offended.
"We thought you were a publisher, my friend, and we always make them wait a little while before we admit them," said Moore. "It has a most beneficial effect upon their opinion of me as a writer. Independence is frequently accepted as indicative of personal affluence, as you doubtless know."
Mr. Smirk looked a trifle dazed, and then, abandoning his effort at comprehension, proceeded to get to his business without further delay.