"Some day I may be an hereditary legislator. At present I'm a drone. I fish, shoot birds, and hunt foxes, and once a year I attend a cricket match. Birds are more suited to the bore of my gun than elephants. If I had a Maxim I might tackle elephants. I am in receipt of an income of three thousand pounds sterling a year from my father, who refuses to increase the amount. I am otherwise well satisfied with the universe.
"My record last year was:
| Birds.................. |
| Fishes................. |
| Foxes ................." |
"I've left space for the mortality returns, and any note you may wish to add," said the secretary courteously. "Kindly fill in the figures, and initial the sheet if you find it correct. Your name will not appear if Mr. Pilgrim makes use of the information."
Lord Roker referred to his pocket-book for statistics, and then inserted the figures required. The note he added was: "De mortuis nil nisi bonum."
"Good kills, all of 'em," he explained.
The secretary took the sheet and placed it methodically in a folio labelled "Britishers."
"Is Mr. Pilgrim anywhere about?" Lord Roker asked. "Or Miss Pilgrim?"
"I believe that Miss Pilgrim is in the grounds, but Mr. Pilgrim has gone across the moors in his motor to shed a tear at the residence of the late Charlotte Brontë. A wonderful man is the boss, my lord. It takes me all my time to file the information he gathers. It will be midnight before I have fixed Charlotte up."
"Your hours are long," said Lord Roker, sympathetically.