“If you had seen him kick and scratch and wriggle when we put hands upon him, you wouldn’t say he was a non-combatant, Colonel. He swore at the United States and said he kept one of our flags for his pocket-handkerchief.”
“Tut, tut,” exclaimed the Colonel, “we have not come to fight old men; let him go.”
“Ye’d betther,” remarked the old man with a grin, “or I’ll make ye sorry.”
“Now, what could you do?” asked the Colonel with an amused smile.
The old man sidled up beside the bridle of the Colonel’s horse, and in a tone of mock solemnity, while his eyes sparkled with fun, whispered, “I’d put the curse of Cramwell an ye.”
“Say, friend,” said Morton, “there is something about you that tells me you are an old soldier. Were you ever in the army?”
“Yis, but not in yer riffraff that ye’s call an army.”
“You are mistaken in me,” replied Morton, and drawing aside his cloak showed the scarlet coat of the British service.
“An’ how did ye fall in wid dem rebels? A prisoner are ye, God save us! You’ll be Leftenant Morton that was to be hanged, as I heard tell. Well, well, since ye wern’t born to be hanged, it is drownded ye may be. Av coorse I was in the army an’ got me discharge an’ a grant of land from King George, an’ may the divil catch a hould o’ dem that don’t wish him well.”