“I have!” ejaculated Queerman; but the rest of us hastened to declare our ignorance.
“Very well,” said Stranion. “Queerman shall see that I stick to the facts.”
“Oh, boys, I’ve a heavy contract on hand then,” cried Queerman.
But Stranion blandly ignored him, and continued,—
“I’ll call this tale—
‘THE PANTHER AT THE PARSONAGE.’
“You have all seen the old parsonage at the mouth of the Keswick River. That’s a historic edifice for you! Therein was I born. There were more trees around it then than now.
“At the mature age of ten months I moved away from that neighborhood, but not before the Indian devil, as the panther is called in that region, had found me out and marked me as a foreordained antagonist.
“One bright June morning, when I was about five months old, and not yet able to be much protection to my young mother, my father set out on one of his long parochial drives, and we were left alone,—no, not quite alone; there was Susan, the kitchen-girl, for company. That constituted the garrison of the parsonage on that eventful morning,—mother, Susan, and myself.
“I cannot say I remember what took place, but I have so often been told it that I feel as if I had taken an active part. Mother and I were sitting by an open window, down-stairs, looking out on the front yard, when suddenly mother called out sharply,—