Jerry. Now, my dear good-natured jailor, only have pity on me, and I'll tell you all about it.
Jailor. I won't hear you—didn't you breed a riot?
Jerry. Why no, it was not me. I am as innocent as a young lamb. I'll tell you how it was—come, sit down on this bench with me. [They sit.] You must know that I'm a farmer, pretty well off, as a body mout say, and I wanted a wife; hard by our village, there lived an old soger with a pretty daughter, so I courted the old man for his daughter, and he consented to the match.
Jailor. Well?
Jerry. And so I got together all my neighbours, and, with music, went to the old soger's to get my sweetheart, when, lo and behold! after all my trouble, she refused me plump.
Jailor. No, did she?
Jerry. Ay, indeed; she didn't seem stricken with the proposal—and for fear her father would force her to marry me, egad, she run away.
Jailor. And where did she go?
Jerry. I can't say, but her father and a whole posse comitatus, as we justices call 'em, went in search of her to the camp, and when I came here, I found some of my old comrades who fought with me at Queenstown; and so having a little money, we went to take a comfortable pitcher of whiskey punch together, and so, while over our cups, they doubted my valour, and hinted that I run away before the battle.
Jailor. Well, and what did you do?