“We have taken a prisoner!” cried one of the men in an exulting voice.
“The divil take you,” interrupted the old man with contentious manner. “Yees had no business wid me.”
“We found him hiding behind some brush watching our men. He is a spy,” said the scout.
“Behind some brush! An’ whose brush was it? Me own, bedad.”
“You had no business there.”
“No business to be on my own farrum! Bad scran to ye, if I had yees in Wixford I’d get the constable to arrist every man o’ yees for trispass.”
“Come, hold your tongue,” said a scout roughly.
“Hould yer own whisht. Ye havn’t mended yer manners since I saw yer backs at Brandywine.”
Col. Vanderberg smiled as he said to the scouts, “I am afraid you have been too hasty. We are now in Canada and must not molest its inhabitants. The old man is a non-combatant, and, as he declares, was on his own farm when taken.”