As I emptied my cup Lord Ragnall, who had left the room, returned and asked us to come and see the game.  So we went, to find it laid out in endless lines upon the snow-powdered grass in the quadrangle of the castle, arranged in one main and two separate lots.

“Those are yours and Sir Junius’s,” said Scroope.  “I wonder which of you has won.  I’ll put a sovereign on you, old fellow.”

“Then you’re a donkey for your pains,” I answered, feeling vexed, for at that moment I had forgotten all about the bet.

I do not remember how many pheasants were killed altogether, but the total was much smaller than had been hoped for, because of the gale.

“Jenkins,” said Lord Ragnall presently to Red Waistcoat, “how many have you to the credit of Sir Junius Fortescue?”

“Two hundred and seventy-seven, my lord, twelve hares, two woodcocks, and three pigeons.”

“And how many to that of Mr. Quatermain?” adding:  “I must remind you both, gentlemen, that the birds have been picked as carefully as possible and kept unmixed, and therefore that the figures given by Jenkins must be considered as final.”

“Quite so,” I answered, but Van Koop said nothing.  Then, while we all waited anxiously, came the amazing answer: 

“Two hundred and seventy-seven pheasants, my lord, same number as those of Sir Junius, Bart., fifteen hares, three pigeons, four partridges, one duck, and a beak—­I mean a woodcock.”

“Then it seems you have won your L5, Mr. Quatermain, upon which I congratulate you,” said Lord Ragnall.

“Stop a minute,” broke in Van Koop.  “The bet was as to pheasants; the other things don’t count.”

“I think the term used was ‘birds,’” I remarked.  “But to be frank, when I made it I was thinking of pheasants, as no doubt Sir Junius was also.  Therefore, if the counting is correct, there is a dead heat and the wager falls through.”

“I am sure we all appreciate the view you take of the matter,” said Lord Ragnall, “for it might be argued another way.  In these circumstances Sir Junius keeps his L5 in his pocket.  It is unlucky for you, Quatermain,” he added, dropping the “mister,” “that the last high pheasant you shot can’t be found.  It fell into the lake, you remember, and, I suppose, swam ashore and ran.”

“Yes,” I replied, “especially as I could have sworn that it was quite dead.”

“So could I, Quatermain; but the fact remains that it isn’t there.”

“If we had all the pheasants that we think fall dead our bags would be much bigger than they are,” remarked Van Koop, with a look of great relief upon his face, adding in his horrid, patronizing way:  “Still, you shot uncommonly well, Quatermain.  I’d no idea you would run me so close.”

I felt inclined to answer, but didn’t.  Only Lord Ragnall said: 

“Mr. Quatermain shot more than well.  His performance in the Lake covert was the most brilliant that I have ever seen.  When you went in there together, Sir Junius, you were thirty ahead of him, and you fired seventeen more cartridges at the stand.”