clarionet, fife, or trumpet, while they waited the appearance of
the party from the house. Uproarious mirth and noisy joking rang round
the dwelling, to which none contributed more largely than the trumpeter,
who fancied himself an immensely clever fellow, and had a heap of
cut-and-dry jokes at his command, and practical drolleries in which he
indulged to the great entertainment of all, but of none more than Andy,
who was in the thick of the row, and in a divided ecstasy between the
"_blaky-moor's_" turban and cymbals and the trumpeter's jokes and music;
the latter articles having a certain resemblance, by-the-bye, to the
former in clumsiness and noise, and therefore suited to Andy's taste.
Whenever occasion offered, Andy got near the big drum, too, and gave it
a thump, delighted with the result of his ambitious achievement.

Andy was not lost on the trumpeter: "Arrah, maybe you'd like to have a
touch at these?" said the joker, holding up the cymbals.

"Is it hard to play them, sir?" inquired Andy.

"Hard!" said the trumpeter; "sure they're not hard at all--but as soft
and smooth as satin inside--just feel them--rub your fingers inside."

Andy obeyed; and his finger was chopped between the two brazen plates.
Andy roared, the bystanders laughed, and the trumpeter triumphed in his
wit. Sometimes he would come behind an unsuspecting boor, and give,
close to his ear, a discordant bray from his trumpet, like the note of a
jackass, which made _him_ jump, and the crowd roar with merriment; or,
perhaps, when the clarionet or the fife was engaged in giving the people
a tune, he would drown either, or both of them, in a wild yell of his
instrument. As they could not make reprisals upon him, he had his own
way in playing whatever he liked for his audience; and in doing so
indulged in all the airs of a great artist--pulling out one crook from
another--blowing through them softly, and shaking the moisture from them
in a tasty style--arranging them with a fastidious nicety--then, after
the final adjustment of the mouth-piece, lipping the instrument with an
affectation exquisitely grotesque; but before he began he always asked
for another drink.

"It's not for myself," he would say, "but for the thrumpet, the
crayther; the divil a note she can blow without a dhrop."

Then, taking a mug of drink, he would present it to the bell of the
trumpet, and afterwards transfer it to his own lips, always bowing to
the instrument first, and