“I must apologize for that third shot of mine, which was infamous, for I committed a similar fault to that against which I warned you, sir, and did not fire far enough ahead. However, it may serve to show your attendant the difference between the tail of a pigeon and an oak leaf,” and I pointed to one of the feathers of the poor bird, which was still drifting to the ground.
“Well, if this here snipe of a chap ain’t the devil in boots!” exclaimed Charles to himself.
But his master cut him short with a look, then lifted his hat to me and said:
“Sir, the practice much surpasses the precept, which is unusual. I congratulate you upon a skill that almost partakes of the marvellous, unless, indeed, chance——” And he stopped.
“It is natural that you should think so,” I replied; “but if more pigeons come, and Mr. Charles will make sure that he loads the rifle, I hope to undeceive you.”
At this moment, however, a loud shout from Scroope, who was looking for me, reinforced by a shrill cry uttered by Miss Manners, banished every pigeon within half a mile, a fact of which I was not sorry, since who knows whether I should have hit all, or any, of the next three birds?
“I think my friends are calling me, so I will bid you good morning,” I said awkwardly.
“One moment, sir,” he exclaimed. “Might I first ask you your name? Mine is Ragnall—Lord Ragnall.”
“And mine is Allan Quatermain,” I said.
“Oh!” he answered, “that explains matters. Charles, this is Mr. Scroope’s friend, the gentleman that you said—exaggerated. I think you had better apologize.”