"Possibly," quoth Nick, "a short poem on these three British warriors may enliven you:
"Carleton, Burgoyne, Howe,
"Bow-wow-wow!"
But there was nothing to be hoped of these sullen Tories, for they took our laughter scowling, but budged not an inch. A pity, for it was come to a pretty pass in Johnstown when two honest farmers must go home for lack of a rogue or two of sufficient spirit to liven a dull day withal.
We stopped at the White Doe Tavern, and Nick gave the company another poem, which he said was writ by my Lord North:
"O Boston wives and maids draw near and see
Our delicate Souchong and Hyson tea;
Buy it, my charming girls, fair, black, or brown;
If not, we'll cut your throats and burn your town!"
Whereat all the company laughed and applauded; and there was no hope of any sport to be had there, either.
"Well," said Nick, sighing, "the war seems to be done ere it begun. What's in those whelps at the Johnson Arms, that they stomach such jests as we cook for them? Time was when I knew where I could depend upon a broken head in Johnstown—mine own or another's."
We had it in mind to dine at the Doe, planning, as we sat on the stoop, bridles in hand, to ride back to the Bush by new moonlight.
"If a pretty wench were as rare as a broken head in Johnstown," he muttered, "I'd be undone, indeed. Come, Jack; shall we ride that way homeward?"