The boy gave a yell of pain, and slapped his hand to his face, at the same time executing a double shuffle with his feet.
"What ails you, lad?"' asked the poet in astonishment.
"My toot' haches me," explained Buster, who had invented this complaint by way of diverting his master's inquiries.
"Fall in love, Buster," advised Moore, "and the pain in your heart will make you forget the pain in your tooth."
"Hit's better now, sir," announced the boy, jubilant that he had kept his master from all knowledge of Mistress Dyke without real denial of her visits.
"Now for the other letter," said Moore.
This was the bulky package. Buster's suspicions that it inclosed a disappointment proved not unfounded, for there was a manuscript poem folded within.
"Humph," grunted Moore, scornfully. "What bad taste they display.
"'MR. THOMAS MOORE--
"'DEAR SIR,--In view of your present unpopularity--'