My grandfather made a bow to the motley assemblage as he entered, and having undressed himself, placed his light in the fire-place, asking pardon of the tongs, which seemed to be making love to the shovel in the chimney corner, and whispering soft nonsense in its ear.

The rest of the guests were by this time sound asleep; for your Mynheers are huge sleepers.  The house maids, one by one, crept up yawning to their attics, and not a female head in the inn was laid on a pillow that night without dreaming of the Bold Dragoon.

My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and drew over him one of those great bags of down, under which they smother a man in the Low Countries; and there he lay, melting between, two feather beds, like an anchovy sandwich between two slices of toast and butter.  He was a warm-complexioned man, and this smothering played the very deuce with him.  So, sure enough, in a little while it seemed as if a legion of imps were twitching at him and all the blood in his veins was in fever heat.

He lay still, however, until all the house was quiet, excepting the snoring of the Mynheers from the different chambers; who answered one another in all kinds of tones and cadences, like so many bull-frogs in a swamp.  The quieter the house became, the more unquiet became my grandfather.  He waxed warmer and warmer, until at length the bed became too hot to hold him.

“May be the maid had warmed it too much?” said the curious gentleman, inquiringly.

“I rather think the contrary,” replied the Irishman.  “But be that as it may, it grew too hot for my grandfather.”

“Faith there’s no standing this any longer,” says he; so he jumped out of bed and went strolling about the house.

“What for?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“Why, to cool himself to be sure,” replied the other, “or perhaps to find a more comfortable bed—­or perhaps—­but no matter what he went for—­he never mentioned; and there’s no use in taking up our time in conjecturing.”

Well, my grandfather had been for some time absent from his room, and was returning, perfectly cool, when just as he reached the door he heard a strange noise within.  He paused and listened.  It seemed as if some one was trying to hum a tune in defiance of the asthma.  He recollected the report of the room’s being haunted; but he was no believer in ghosts.  So he pushed the door gently ajar, and peeped in.

Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol carrying on within enough to have astonished St. Anthony.

By the light of the fire he saw a pale weazen-faced fellow in a long Flannel gown and a tall white night-cap with a tassel to it, who sat by the fire, with a bellows under his arm by way of bagpipe, from which he forced the asthmatical music that had bothered my grandfather.  As he played, too, he kept twitching about with a thousand queer contortions; nodding his head and bobbing about his tasselled night-cap.