CHAPTER XV POOR FISHING
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“HAVE A DRINK, COLONEL?”
“Eh?”
“I said—Here, boy! A Scotch high and a mint julep.”
Colonel Ashley, roused from his reverie as he sat in his club, gazing out on the busy, fashionable, hurrying, jostling, worried, happy, sad, and otherwise throngs that swept past the big Fifth avenue windows, shifted himself in the comfortable leather chair, and looked at his cigar. It had gone out, and he decided that it was not worth relighting.
“Cigars, too!” ordered Bruce Garrigan.
“Oh, were you speaking to me?” and the colonel seemed wholly awake now.
“Not only to you, but in your interests,” went on Garrigan, with a smile. “Hope I didn’t disturb your nap, but—”
“Oh, no,” the colonel hastened to assure his companion with his usual affability. “I had finished sle
