"Colleton, Colleton," repeated the other, as if reviving some
recollection of old time--"why, 'squire, I once knew a whole family of
that name in Carolina. I'm from Carolina myself, you must know. There
was an old codger--a fine, hearty buck--old Ralph Colleton--Colonel
Ralph, as they used to call him. He did have a power of money, and a
smart chance of lands and field-niggers; but they did say he was going
behindhand, for he didn't know how to keep what he had. He was always
buying, and living large; but that can't last for ever. I saw him first
at a muster. I was then just eighteen, and went out with the rest, for
the first time. Maybe, 'squire, I didn't take the rag off the bush that
day. I belonged to Captain Williams's troop, called the 'Bush-Whackers.'
We were all fine-looking fellows, though I say it myself. I was no
chicken, I tell you. From that day, Mark Forrester wrote himself down
'_man_' And well he might, 'squire, and no small one neither. Six feet
in stocking-foot, sound in wind and limb--could outrun, outjump,
outwrestle, outfight, and outdo anyhow, any lad of my inches in the
whole district.
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