"So I ha' caught ye at last?" he shouted at sight of the poet.
"Have it your own way, sir."
"Six times ha' I called here, sair, ye trickster, ye cheat."
"Hold on now," said Moore, in sudden anger, "you are an old man, but more than enough of such talk is a great deal too much."
Bessie laid a restraining hand on Moore's arm.
"Perhaps, Mr. McDermot, you will be kind enough to state your grievance," she said, quietly.
"It's aboot the contract," sputtered the irate publisher.
"Is n't that all right?" asked Moore, wonderingly. "I signed it."
"Of coorse ye did, ye trickster, but ye did not tell me when ye called to do so that the evening before ye had been shamefully ejected from Sir Percival's house by order o' the Prince of Wales."
"Surely that was Sir Percival's business," replied Moore. "He may have been proud of the affair; I was n't."