you hold it straight it will do the rest. But keep the muzzle up, sir,
keep it up, for I know what the bore is without studying the same with
my eye. Also perhaps you won't take it amiss if I tell you that here at
Ragnall we hates a low pheasant. I mention it because the last gentleman
who came from foreign parts--he was French, he was--shot nothing all day
but one hen bird sitting just on the top of the brush, two beaters, his
lordship's hat, and a starling."

At this point Scroope broke into a roar of idiotic laughter. Charles,
from whom Fortune decreed that I was not to escape, after all, turned
his back and doubled up as though seized with sudden pain in the
stomach, and I grew absolutely furious.

"Confound it, Mr. Keeper," I explained, "what do you mean by lecturing
me? Attend to your business, and I'll attend to mine."

At this moment who should appear from behind the angle of some
building--we were talking in the stableyard, near the gun-room--but Lord
Ragnall himself. I could see that he had overheard the conversation, for
he looked angry.

"Jenkins," he said, addressing the keeper, "do what Mr. Quatermain has
said and attend to your own business. Perhaps you are not aware that he
has shot more lions, elephants, and other big game than you have cats.
But, however that may be, it is not your place to try to instruct him or
any of my guests. Now go and see to the beaters."

"Beg pardon, my lord," ejaculated Jenkins, his face, that was as florid
as his waistcoat, turning quite pale; "no offence meant, my lord, but
elephants and lions don't fly, my lord, and those accustomed to such