Presently the identical Tim made his appearance, and was placed in high state at the top of the room, with a degree of attention and respect fully due to his abilities. For my part, the very sight of Tim, and the thought of his consummate assurance or stupidity in attempting to play for dancing, amused me beyond expression; but I suppressed all symptoms of this, and kept my eyes and ears on the alert in expectation of what was to follow. A bumper of his favourite punch was prepared for him, and while sipping it, I thought he cast a scrutinizing and anxious glance on the company, probably thinking how he should adjust his _politics_ there. But he had little time to pause. A quadrille set was immediately formed, and he was called on to play!--the sapient belles and beaux never dreaming that a modern piper even _might_ not play quadrilles. Never did I find it so difficult to restrain myself from immoderate laughter! There stood the eight _elegantes_, ringleted, perfumed, white-gloved, and refined; and there sat Tim Callaghan in all his native surly stupidity, dreadfully puzzled, “looking unutterable things,” humming and hawing, and tuning and droning much longer than necessary--not in the least aware of the demand that was to be made on himself or his pipes, but puzzling his brains as to which of his own he should play _first_. “A quadrille, piper!--the first of Montague’s!” called out the leading gentleman. “E--ah!” said Tim Callaghan, opening his sleepy eyes, surprised into some little animation. “The first of Montague’s set of quadrilles!” repeated the beau. “Ogh, _Mountycute’s_ is out ov fashin; _but I’ll give yez one as good_;” and the company being mixed, of whose _opinions_ he could not be sure, the quadrillers were astounded with “God save the King” in most execrable style!