"You--you rapscallion," she said, brokenly, "to make an old woman like me cry. Ah, bless you, Tom Moore, for it's the old days you 've brought back to me."
"But the rent?"
"May your voice never grow less, Tom Moore. You--You--!"
"Well, Mrs. Malone?"
"You have me rint Satherday or there 'll be throuble."
And, blowing her nose vigorously, the relenting landlady left the attic to its inhabitants.
"'O-o-ray! 'O-o-ray!" shouted Buster in a hoarse whisper, seizing Lord Castlereagh by the front paws and dancing around in a circle in his delight. "Till Saturday, till Saturday! 'O-oray! 'O-oray!"
"Buster, from now on, we can never complain of these apartments as expensive," said Moore, fanning himself by the window.
"No, sir? Why not?" asked Buster.
"Because I got them for a song," replied the poet. "A cursed bad joke, Buster, even if I did make it myself."