"Yes, hit do," continued the boy, sadly. "Say, sir, won't you allus call me Buster?"
"No, sir," responded Moore, sternly. "You were fighting again this afternoon. As punishment for your pugilistic propensities I refuse to call you Buster again to-day."
"Ho, law!" exclaimed Buster, "but this 'ere punishment is horful. We wuz honly 'aving a gime, sir, just playin' like."
"Indeed? I happened to see you myself this time. I won't have you half killing the neighbors' children that way."
"You saw me? Oh, Hi say, was n't that a helegant gesture w'en I soaked 'im hon the nob? Did n't Hi do 'im hup brown, eh? Hand that jolt hin the bread-basket wid my left fisty. Ho, that cert'nly wuz a pet!"
"Montgomery Julien," began the poet, severely.
The lad wilted.
"Ho, don't, sir, don't. Hit makes me that fretful," he said pleadingly. "Hi 'll reform, really Hi will."
"Do so, then," said Moore. "And remember, if I ever hear of your fighting again, I 'll never call you anything but Montgomery."
"Yessir," replied Buster, with a low bow. "Hi 'ears, hand to 'ear his to hobey. Hi retires from the prize ring to-day, hand my champeenship Hi resigns to the red-'eaded butcher boy hacross the w'y. 'Ere 's the post, sir."