“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.”
“You can try it,” said Moriarty, “but you’ll not be able. Anything those fellows could play, I’d be able to whistle, and if it’s what I couldn’t whistle they’ll not be able to play it.”
“You could whistle that all right if you tried.”
“I could not. Nor I couldn’t play it on an ivy leaf, nor yet on a comb, and if I couldn’t there’s nobody else could. I’m not saying it isn’t good music, doctor, for it may be. But there’s neither beginning nor end of it, nor there isn’t anything in the middle that a man would be able to catch hold of.”
Dr. O’Grady shut the piano with a bang. Constable Moriarty rose from his seat.
“If there’s nothing more you’ll be wanting with me, doctor,” he said, “it might be as well if I was getting back to the barrack. The sergeant’s terrible particular these times. Mr. Gregg, the D.I., has him annoyed with finding fault here and there and everywhere. Not that I blame Mr. Gregg, for everybody knows he’s a nice quiet kind of a man who’d ask for nothing only to be let alone. But that’s what he can’t get on account of Mr. Ford.”