“It is, sir,” lied Tim; “and in faith, sir,” added he, still lying, “it’s one more bottle than I thought; for there was but a dozen when we started from Derry a week ago; and you know, sir, you and the collector on last Tuesday”

But the catalogue of circumstances which were intended to act as buttresses to Master Tim’s inventions was cut short by a peremptory order to leave the room.  This he did so soon as he had made a circumbendibus to escape notice, and deposited the basket behind his master’s chair, muttering, as he put it down with a thump, “There’s a couple of bottles of as good wine as ever was uncorked.”

The fresh broach was indeed so delicious that we could hardly believe it was of the same vintage as that of the previous bin, though our host assured us it was “the identical.”  Tim’s basket well merited a higher eulogium than he had given it; but while his reputation as a judge of wine rose, his character for veracity fell in about the same proportion, since we beheld, in due season, not merely two, but three, and at last a fourth long-necked gentleman from Bordeaux emerge from under the straw!

The trick played upon us by these confederates was now apparent enough; but the wine, fortunately, was of that light and pure kind which does not produce much effect on strong heads, and that of my companion was proof against far greater trials than this.  He was indeed perfectly aware of what was passing; and though dearly loving the wine, which was superior to any he had ever before tasted, yet he had no notion of being made tipsy by means of a common-place concert between host and butler.  He therefore rose to leave the room, expecting, of course, to be forcibly detained, or, at all events, being begged and entreated to sit down again.  Not a whit!  The wily native merely observed to him that “if he had a mind to admire the prospect, there was still daylight enough to command a view down the bay from the little knoll on the right.”  The Englishman was sorely puzzled by all this.  There was none of the detention he expected would be practised upon him, and yet he had a strong consciousness that he was undergoing the operation well known afloat and ashore by the title of “the game of humbug.”  At the same time, he felt the most eager desire to take another good pull at the claret.

There was no wine before us at this critical juncture of the evening, and our landlord, who, most unaccountably, seemed indifferent to this material circumstance, went on prosing for a quarter-of-an-hour about Protestant ascendancy, the eternal siege of Derry, the battle of the Boyne, and such like stale topics.  At length one of the company became somewhat impatient, and, watching for a pause, asked his host if it were the custom in Ireland to discuss Orange politics with empty glasses?