"Ho, no, your 'Ighness. That 'd make them suspicious," dissented Buster.
"Perhaps you are right," said Wales, reflectively.
"Per'aps Hi his," admitted the boy. "Hi ain't hallus wrong, you know, your 'Ighness."
"What place is this, my lad?"
"This," replied Buster, grandiloquently, "his the palatial residence of the famous poet, Mr. Thomas Moore."
"Moore!" repeated the Prince in astonishment. "Fatality pursues me."
"Hif that's wot wuz harter you Hi don't wonder you cut stick," said the boy, cautiously peering out of the window.
"To while away a tedious evening I sometimes assume a disguise such as my present adornment and go out in search of adventures," said Wales, condescending to explain his present predicament.
"Yessir," said Buster, "Hi knows Jine Sweeny myself. You h'are the pusson Hi saw with 'er the hother night."
"Did you recognize me?"