"Er--er--ahem,--I am a married man," observed Mr. Gannon, doubtfully.
"This will enable you to forget that," said Moore in a reassuring tone.
"I hope not," replied Gannon, suddenly waxing confidential. "The only cloud in my domestic horizon was caused by just such a slip of memory. What a recollection women have for such lapses."
"For theirs or for yours, Mr. Gannon?"
"For mine, Mr. Moore, for mine," hastily replied the clerk. "Ah, women--er--er--ahem--are angels, sir, angels."
"No doubt," said Moore, pleasantly, as he poured out the whisky, "of one kind or another. This, sir, is the dew of heaven. You 'll never beat this for tipple, Mr. Gannon. When I place this before you I show you the greatest compliment in my power. Believe me, it is most precious, dear sir, for it is the essence of Ireland. Each drop a tinted diamond. Your health, Mr. Gannon."
"Thank you, Mr. Moore, thank you," replied the clerk in a flattered tone, raising his glass to his mouth. But the first swallow of the fiery liquid sent him into such a paroxysm of coughing that Moore felt compelled to slap him on the back hastily.
"That's the way to drink such whisky," said the poet, approvingly. "It makes it last longer."
"Er--er--ahem," replied the clerk, taking advantage of Moore's own imbibing to empty the contents of his glass over his shoulder unperceived by his host. Buster, being at this particular moment just behind the little clerk, received the whisky full in the face, and feeling compelled on his master's account to resist the belligerent impulse which demanded he should obtain immediate satisfaction from the cause of his discomfiture, he sought with a smothered oath the seclusion of the stairs, an exile into which he was immediately followed by the bulldog.
"What ails the lad?" asked Moore in astonishment. "I wonder if he is n't well?"