Finally, the fiddler can take it no more. Straining every muscle, shestarts in on a slow, dirge-like rendition of whiskey before Breakfast. Gradually through pure force of will, she speeds it up, then walks haltingly through Harvest Home, joggs through Arkansas Traveller, trots trhough Fisher's Hornpipe, canters through Smash the Windows, gallops thorough Rakes of Mallow, and grins madly as sparks fly from the box, yelling at the top of her lungs Where's the bloody Bodran player when you could really use him. Mikal, where are yooooooooooooou