I was detached from the headquarters of my regiment at the town of Ballingarry, Limerick. I had been out as usual with my gun in the bogs, which, in that neighbourhood, abounded in snipe, and having dined in my snug quarters (the lodge at the gate of the Protestant minister’s demesne), had just finished my tumbler of “hot stoppings,” when the thump of an open palm against my door announced a visit from my sergeant-major.
“Here’s the gauger, sir; and he wants our men to capture a still.”
A cold frosty night outside, and a clear turf fire within, with other pictures of comfort, did not help to inflame my soul with military ardour in the prospect of a still-hunt among the mountains five miles off. I was bound, however, to interview the gauger, and thereupon there entered a stout man, with a very blossomy nose, dressed in rusty black, who, at my invitation, seated himself by the fire.
“I have a requisition for twelve rank and file to assist in capturing a still in the neighbourhood, and here, sir, is the fee.”[12]