saying, "Your health, ma'am!"

This was another piece of delight to the mob, and Andy thought him the
funniest fellow he ever met, though he _did_ chop his finger.

"Faix, sir, an' it is dhry work, I'm sure, playing the thing."

"Dhry!" said the trumpeter, "'pon my ruffles and tuckers--and that's a
cambric oath--it's worse nor lime-burnin', so it is--it makes a man's
throat as parched as pays."

"Who dar says pays?" cried the drummer.

"Howld your prate!" said the trumpeter, elegantly, and silenced all
reply by playing a tune. As soon as it was ended, he turned to Andy and
asked for a cork.

Andy gave it to him.

The man of jokes affected to put it into the trumpet.

"What's that for, sir?" asked Andy.

"To bottle up the music," said the trumpeter--"sure all the music would
run about the place if I didn't do that."

Andy gave a vague sort of "ha, ha!" as if he were not quite sure whether
the trumpeter was in jest or earnest, and thought at the moment that to
play the trumpet and practical jokes must be the happiest life in the
world. Filled with this idea, Andy was on the watch how he could possess
himself of the trumpet, for could he get one blast on it, he would be
happy: a chance at last opened to him; after some time, the lively owner
of the treasure laid down his instrument to handle a handsome blackthorn
which one of the retainers was displaying, and he made some flourishes
with the weapon to show that music was not his only accomplishment. Andy
seized the opportunity and the trumpet, and made off to one of the sheds
where they had been regaling; and, shutting the door to secure himself
from observation, he put the trumpet to his mouth and distended his
cheeks near to bursting with the violence of his efforts to produce a
sound; but all his puffing was unavailing for some minutes. At last a
faint cracked squeak answered a more desperate blast than before, and
Andy was delighted. "Everything must have a beginning," thought Andy,
"and maybe I'll get a tune out of it yet." He tried again, and increased
in power; for a sort of strangled screech was the result. Andy was in
ecstasy, and began to indulge visions of being one day a trumpeter; he
strutted up and down the shed like the original he so envied, and
repeated some of the drolleries he heard him utter. He also imitated his
actions of giving a drink to the trumpet, and was more generous to the
instrument than the owner, for he really poured about half a