Dr. Lucius O’Grady was a born leader of men. He discovered very soon that in the matter of the performance of “God Save the King” by the town band, fate had a rope round his leg and was likely to scourge him uncomfortably if he pulled against it. The introduction of variations into the tune proved to be a much more difficult matter than he had supposed. He worked hard for six hours on Major Kent’s piano, and produced two versions of which he thought well, though neither of them completely satisfied him. He sent for Constable Moriarty and played them over to him. Moriarty sat and listened to the first. “Would you know what that tune was, Moriarty?” said Dr. O’Grady. “I would, of course. Anybody would. I don’t say but there’s bits in it that isn’t right, but you have the tune safe enough.” “Would Thady Gallagher know it?” “He would,” said Moriarty, “and what’s more he’d be lepping mad when he heard it. And you couldn’t wonder. You wouldn’t like it yourself, doctor, if somebody was to play a tune at you that you hated worse nor you hate the devil.” Dr. O’Grady was disappointed. “Are you sure now,” he said, “that he wouldn’t be taken in by the variations? I don’t know whether you quite realise the number of variations there are? Just listen to me again.” He played his composition through once more, touching the notes which gave the tune very softly, hammering hard at the long runs and fiery groups of semi-quavers which he had sandwiched in between the scraps of tune. “I wouldn’t say,” said Moriarty, “that you’ve destroyed it altogether; though it’s my opinion that it’s better the way it was before you set your hand to it. But anyhow you needn’t be uneasy. There isn’t a man, woman or child that ever heard the tune but would know what you’re aiming at.” Dr. O’Grady felt that Moriarty’s judgment in the matter was too decisive and confident to be ignored. “Very well,” he said. “Now listen to this.” He played through the second of his two compositions. “Now,” he said, “what tune is that, Moriarty?” Moriarty scratched his head and looked inquiringly at the doctor. “Is it what tune is that that you’re asking me?” he said. “Exactly. What tune is it?” “It’s no tune at all,” said Moriarty. “Do you mean to say you don’t recognise it?” “I do not, and what’s more nobody could. For there’s no tune in it, only noise.” The doctor hesitated. Moriarty’s opinion was in one respect quite satisfactory. Neither Gallagher nor anyone else in Ballymoy was likely to recognise the tune. It might, of course, fail to impress the Lord-Lieutenant as being quite the proper thing. But that was a difficulty which could be got over. The Lord-Lieutenant was not likely to listen very attentively, and if he were told definitely that the band was playing “God Save the King” he might possibly believe it. “I’m thinking,” said Dr. O’Grady, “of teaching that piece of music to the town band.” “It’ll fail you to do that,” said Moriarty. “I don’t see why.”