"Also," remarked Schoot, "the wealthy amateur chamois hunter is always with us. Like the goitre, he is to be expected in the Alps."
"Am I obliged to let strangers hunt on my property?" I asked, aghast.
"The revenue to an estate is always considerable," explained Schoot. "With your inn, your 'Cure,' your bottling works, and your hunting fees your income should be enviable, Mr. O'Ryan."
I gazed angrily up at the mountains. Probably every hunter would break his neck. Then a softer mood invaded my wrath, and I thought of my late uncle and of his crazy scheme to stock the Andes with chamois—a project which, while personally pursuing it, and an infant chamois, presently put an end to his dashing career upon earth. He was some uncle, General Juan O'Ryan, but too credulous, and too much of a sport.
"Which mountain did he fall off?" I inquired in a subdued voice, gazing up at the ring of terrific peaks above us.
"That one—the Bec de l'Empereur," said Captain Schey, in the funereal voice which decency requires when chronicling necrology.
I looked seriously at the peak known as "The Emperor's Nose." No wonder my uncle broke his neck.
"Which Emperor?" I inquired absently.
"The Kaiser."
"You don't mean William of Hohenzollern!"