“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 ground varmin are apt to shoot low, my lord. Beaters all ready at the Hunt Copse, my lord.”
Thus speaking he backed himself out of sight. Lord Ragnall watched him go, then said with a laugh:
“I apologize to you, Mr. Quatermain. That silly old fool was part of my inheritance, so to speak; and the joke of it is that he is himself the worst and most dangerous shot I ever saw. However, on the other hand, he is the best rearer of pheasants in the county, so I put up with him. Come in, now, won’t you? Charles will look after your guns and cartridges.”
So Scroope and I were taken through a side entrance into the big hall and there introduced to the other members of the shooting party, most of whom were staying at the castle. They were famous shots. Indeed, I had read of the prowess of some of them in The Field, a paper that I always took in Africa, although often enough, when I was on my distant expeditions, I did not see a copy of it for a year at a time.
To my astonishment I found that I knew one of these gentlemen. We had not, it is true, met for a dozen years; but I seldom forget a face, and I was sure that I could not be mistaken in this instance. That mean appearance, those small, shifty grey eyes, that red, pointed nose could belong to nobody except Van Koop, so famous in his day in South Africa in connexion with certain gigantic and most successful frauds that the law seemed quite unable to touch, of which frauds I had been one of the many victims to the extent of £250, a large sum for me.
The last time we met there had been a stormy scene between us, which ended in my declaring in my wrath that if I came across him on the veld I should shoot him at sight. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why Mr. van Koop vanished from South Africa, for I may add that he was a cur of the first water. I believe that he had only just entered the room, having driven over from wherever he lived at some distance from Ragnall. At any rate, he knew nothing of my presence at this shoot. Had he known I am quite sure that he would have been absent. He turned, and seeing me, ejaculated: “Allan Quatermain, by heaven!” beneath his breath, but in such a tone of astonishment that it attracted the attention of Lord Ragnall, who was standing near.
“Yes, Mr. van Koop,” I answered in a cheerful voice, “Allan Quatermain, no other, and I hope you are as glad to see me as I am to see you.”
“I think there is some mistake,” said Lord Ragnall, staring at us. “This is Sir Junius Fortescue, who used to be Mr. Fortescue.”
“Indeed,” I replied. “I don’t know that I ever remember his being called by that particular name, but I do know that we are old—friends.”