"By the Blessed Virgin, I'm not humbiggin' your honour," stammered the trumpeter with the little breath O'Grady left him. Scatterbrain, seeing O'Grady's fury, and fearful of its consequences, had alighted from the carriage and came to the rescue, suggesting to the infuriated Squire that what the man said might be true. O'Grady said he knew better, that the blackguard was a notorious joker, and having indulged in a jest in the first instance, was now only lying to save himself from punishment; furthermore, swearing that if he did not play that minute he'd throw him into the ditch. With great difficulty O'Grady was prevailed upon to give up the gripe of the trumpeter's throat; and the poor breathless wretch, handing the instrument to the clarionet-player, appealed to him if it were possible to play on it. The clarionet-player said he could not tell, for he did not understand the trumpet. "You see there!" cried O'Grady. "You see he's humbugging, and the clarionet-player is an honest man." "An honest man!" exclaimed the trumpeter, turning fiercely on the clarionet-player. "He's the biggest _villain_ unhanged for sthrivin' to get me murthered, and refusin' the evidence for me!" The man's eyes flashed fury as he spoke, and throwing his trumpet down, "Mooney!--by jakers, you're no man!" Clenching his fist as he spoke, he made a rush on the clarionet-player, and planted a hit on his mouth with such vigour, that he rolled in the dust; and when he rose, it was with such an upper lip that his clarionet-playing was evidently finished for the next week certainly. Now the fifer was the clarionet-player's brother; and he, turning on the trumpeter, roared-- "Bad luck to you!--you did not sthrek him fair!" But while in the very act of reprobating the foul blow, he let fly under the ear of the trumpeter, who was quite unprepared for it,--and he, too, measured his length on the road. On recovering his legs he rushed on the fifer for revenge, and a regular scuffle ensued among "the musicianers," to the great delight of the crowd of retainers, who were so well primed with whisky that a fight was just the thing to their taste. In vain O'Grady swore at them, and went amongst them, striving to restore order, but they would not be quiet till several black eyes and damaged noses bore evidence of a busy five minutes having passed. In the course of "the scrimmage," Fate was unkind to the fifer, whose mouth-piece was considerably impaired; and "the boys" remarked, that the worst stick you could have in a crowd was a "whistling stick," by which name they designated the fifer's instrument. At last, however, peace was restored, and the trumpeter again ordered to play by O'Grady. He protested, again, it was impossible. The fifer, in revenge, declared he was only humbugging the Squire.