"Just had a letter about you, Bones," said Hamilton carelessly.
"About me, sir!" said Bones; "from the War Office—I'm not being decorated or anything!" he asked anxiously.
"No—nothing so tragic; it was a letter from my sister, who is staying with the Vernons."
"Oh!" said Bones going suddenly red.
"What a modest devil you are," said the admiring Hamilton, "having a lion hunt all to yourself and not saying a word about it to anybody."
Bones made curious apologetic noises.
"I didn't know there were any lions in the country," pursued Hamilton remorselessly. "Liars, yes! But lions, no! I suppose you brought them with you—and I suppose you know also, Bones, that it is considered in lion-hunting circles awfully rude to stick your finger into a lion's eye? It is bad sportsmanship to say the least, and frightfully painful for the lion."
Bones was making distressful grimaces.
"How would you like a lion to stick his finger in your eye?" asked Hamilton severely; "and, by the way, Bones, I have to thank you."
He rose solemnly, took the hand of his reluctant and embarrassed second and wrung.