"For one thousand poonds ye will gi' me, without further compensation, the entire literary labor o' your life, sair? All that ye may write so long as ye live, Mr. Moore?"
"Is that the best you will offer me?"
"That's all, sair."
"I accept your terms," said Moore in a choking voice.
McDermot sat down at a desk near by and wrote out the check for the desired amount.
Moore, accompanied by Mr. Sheridan, went in search of Sir Percival armed with the check made payable to the order of the baronet by Mr. McDermot, who immediately after drawing it went home to bed, entirely satisfied with his evening's work.
The two Irishmen found Sir Percival idly chatting with Mr. Walter Scott and that gentleman's most intimate friend, Mr. Samuel Rogers, these two giants being as usual surrounded by a circle of the lesser lights in the world of literature. Their host, seeing that his company was evidently desired, excused himself to his other guests, and the trio withdrew to a secluded corner of the room.
"Sir Percival," said Moore, in reply to the baronet's inquiring glance, "I have been informed by my friend, Mr. Dyke, that he is indebted to you for the amount of one thousand pounds."
Sir Percival allowed an expression of gentle surprise to play over his clever face.
"It is quite true, Mr. Moore, but really I fail to see how the transaction concerns you in the least."