"DEAR SIR,--Inclosed find one pound in payment for your poem, 'Inconstancy,' which, owing to your present unpopularity, we feel compelled to print under the name Thomas Little."
"Hi likes their imperence," cried Buster in disgust. "'Little,' indeed!"
"That accounts for the size of the check, no doubt," observed the poet. "Two days ago it was 'Tom Brown;' next week it will be 'Tom Green' or 'Tom Fool.' However, it does n't matter if Tom Moore gets the money."
"Hi 'll let 'em use my nime," suggested the lad in noble self-sacrifice. "My folks his all dead, so the publis'ty won't kill 'em. Montgomery Julien Hethelbert would look grite hin print."
"I quite agree with you," said Moore, laughing. "Ah, Buster, me boy, it's sweet to be back in the old place. I 'd not give it, bare and ugly as it is, for one of the fine places I 've wined and dined in since leaving it, if Bessie were only here to brighten it for me."
Buster looked around him comprehensively.
"Hit does need cleaning hup a bit," he said apologetically. "Hi 'll see wot Hi can do to-morrer."
"And you say there has been no letter for me from her?" continued Moore.
"Not one letter, sir," replied Buster.
"And you have n't seen her, Buster?"