“No, no, man; but look at the magnificent butterflies—four of them. Why, they must be nine inches across the wings. Where’s Rosebury?”
“Oh! come, doctor: you are better,” exclaimed Chumbley, smiling. “That’s right; don’t think any more about my scare.”
“This trip is completely spoiled,” exclaimed the doctor, excitedly. “No shooting—no collecting! Oh! for goodness’ sake, look at that bird, Chumbley!”
“What, that little humpbacked chap on the dry twig?”
“Yes.”
“Hah! he looks as if he has got the pip.”
“My dear fellow, that’s one of the lovely cinnamon-backed trogons. Look at his crimson breast and pencilled wings.”
“Yes, very pretty,” said Chumbley; “but I often think, doctor, that I’d give something to see half a dozen sooty London sparrows in a genuine old English fog.”
“Nonsense, man. There, too—look!” he cried, pointing, as like a streak of white light a great bird flew across the river. “That’s a white eagle. I never have such chances as this when I’m out collecting.”
“S’pose not,” said Chumbley, drily. “It’s always the case when a fellow has no gun. Precious good job for the birds.”