The weekly messenger. [volume] (St. Martinsville [i.e. St. Martinville] La.) 1886-1948, 1890-11-01
THE COLONEL'S STORY.
BY EDITH UPPER.


vigorously at the cigar he was lighting
''Ics, believe in ghosts. should be
the most ungrateful man alive if | did
not, for ghost once saved my life"
There was a chorus If ''oh's" and
"ah's" and feminine shrek or two at
this statement.
'Fact," said the colonel, rs he leaned
back against the huge tree and prepared
to enjoy his smoke. IF it had not been
for ghost and those two dogs yonder
should not be here tonight"
Veal gathered closer about the camp
fire, and Mrs. Dick Torrington. who was
a notorious coward, hastily tumbled from
her hammock and came forward, crying
out that her teeth had already begun
chattcring, while her husband voiced the
sentiments of the group by begging the
colonel to tell us the story.
We were happy, jolly party
camping out in the Adirondacks.
There were the Mcachams, the Tor
ringtons, Joe barrow, the colonel
and the writer. We had been fishing all
day and had had most extraordinary luck.
We were all in most amiable frame of
mind-in Just the mood to hear a story.
Would the colonel tell us about his ghost:
The colonel was an eccentric gentle
man of about forty-five years. lie was
an awfully good fellow. great diner-out
and a capital story teller. We had often
been RECALLED by his marvellous tales of
adventure by field and flood, but he had
never led us into a domain peopled with
spectres.
He significd his willingness to guide
us thither tonight, and so we huddlcd
between him and the fire and proceeded
to make ourselves as comfortable as pos
siblc during the recital.
Mrs. Dick snugglcd up under her Dig
husbands arm. Bcss Mcacham drew "a
little nearer Joe, and even Phyllis, who
boosted there was nothing under heaven
she feared save drunken men and snakes,
condcsccndcd to allow me to sit on the
pile of blankets where she had thrown
herself, her pretty head pillowcd on her
little brown hands.
The colonel, of course. was facing us !:
moving quietly about behind was Jack
COnroy, the guide, and stretched
out in lazy enjoyment by the swapping
fire lay the coloncl's two superb English
bloodhounds.
at was in ~" began the colonel,
''that bought ranch in Colorado and
stocked it with sheep. NY health had
been so miserable for some time, the
doctors all agreed that m outdoor life
was what needed was loath to leave
st. Louis, where was enjoying social
life amazingly, but as did not care to
fill consumptivcs grave jDt then.
yielded to the advice of my physicians.
"My ranch of thousand acres lay in
q great. green, fertile valley, shut in
by frowning mountains. 1t was a beau
tiful spot--a vcritable garden of the
gods.
1.-The neighboring ranch was owned
by young Englishman, big, handsome,
blonde fellow, with the sunniest dis
position and the sweetest smile in the
world. 1t was impossible to know him
and not love him. God. how fond
was of that boy The colonel broke off
and smoked a few moments in silence.
Il always fancicd, he finally resumed,
"that he had been in some scrape or
other in England and had come to
America to be rid of it. Nothing dis
graceful, I am sure. 1 cannot connect
dishonor with Lionel Ashton. He was
too ingenious, open-hearted and frank
for anything of that sort. He may have
been indiscreet. reckless, imprudent, but
never dishonorablc.
I'VE were soon the warmest friends.
Not day passed that we did not see
each other. We rode about the ranches
together, inspected and criticised the
sheep and cattle, went to the mountains
on hunting excursions. and the cool of
the evening always found my boy
stretched full length in front of my