One afternoon a week later Buster was seated in his favorite attitude, his chair tipped back on its rear legs and his feet, considerably higher than his head, supported by the table, idly contemplating the daily mail which had just been delivered.
There were only two letters. Up to the time of the withdrawal of Wales's favor, there were usually a score or so calling for the poet's inspection each day, but the reprimand of the week before had had immediate effect upon Moore's correspondence, and while numerous of his more intimate friends remained loyal throughout the whole period of his disgrace, there were many others only too prompt to show the utter shallowness of their pretence of regard by immediately abandoning him to what they believed would be permanent ruin.
One of the two letters in Buster's possession had a plump outline that seemed to indicate an inclosure of some bulk. This had the name of the Gazette printed upon it. Buster shook his head disgustedly. The size of the missive seemed ominous. The other letter was neutral in impression-giving. It might hold a check, or it might announce the return of a manuscript under separate cover, but it certainly did possess possibilities.
Buster sighed and, as was his wont, addressed himself to the bulldog, who from the window was solemnly contemplating the passing throng on the street below.
"That's a nice mile for a poet hof the maggietood hof Mr. Moore, haint it, your lordship? Cuss 'em, they thinks we is down to st'y, don't they? Well, we 'll show 'em a thing hor two before we gets through."
The bulldog regarded his master admiringly over his brawny shoulder, and switched his butt of a tail vigorously back and forth upon the floor. This manoeuvre sent fluttering a bit of paper that lay near him, and Lord Castlereagh, becoming immediately persuaded that he had a butterfly within easy reach, leaped vigorously in pursuit.
"You 're a fool," remarked Buster, as the animal scuttled across the floor in delighted chase of the paper. Then, waxing philosophical, he continued, "Hit wuz hever thus. We wacks hup suthin' with hour tiles that flies, hand we thinks hit his fime and fortune, hand pursoos hit only to find hout we 'as bilked hourselves wid a kimming-reror hor fast fiding plant-has-me-goryer."
Absurdly satisfied with himself for having rid his mind of such important and many-jointed words successfully, Buster began to whistle, playing a merry tune more or less reminiscent of "Sally in Our Alley" on an instrument which his master had presented to him the first week of their acquaintance. This was none other than the whistle that Moore had made the very afternoon on which he quarrelled with Bessie at the schoolhouse,--a bit of manufacturing he had often since regretted, for Buster had treasured it carefully, and was much given to using it for shrill improvisation, as well as careful rendition of the various airs then popular with the masses, finding it particularly adapted to the high notes of "The Last Rose of Summer," then in the heyday of its success.
Suddenly he felt his chair tip backward in a manner quite unwarranted by the care with which he was maintaining a delicate balance, and jumped to his feet with a loud yell, finding himself, when he turned, face to face with Mrs. Malone, who had entered unnoticed, the sound of her heavy tread being drowned by his melody.
"Fur goodness' sike!" he exclaimed wrathfully, "you must n't do sich rambunctious things, hole woman. You just scared me houter seven years' growth hand I can't hafford to lose no sich hamount."