“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 it 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.”

But Charles was gone, to pick up the pigeons, I suppose.

At this moment Scroope and the young lady appeared, having heard our voices, and a general explanation ensued.

“Mr. Quatermain has been giving me a lesson in shooting pigeons on the wing with a small-bore rifle,” said Lord Ragnall, pointing to the dead birds that still lay upon the ground.

“He is competent to do that,” said Scroope.

“Painfully competent,” replied his lordship.  “If you don’t believe me, ask the under-keeper.”

“It is the only thing I can do,” I explained modestly.  “Rifle-shooting is my trade, and I have made a habit of practising at birds on the wing with ball.  I have no doubt that with a shot-gun your lordship would leave me nowhere, for that is a game at which I have had little practice, except when shooting for the pot in Africa.”

“Yes,” interrupted Scroope, “you wouldn’t have any chance at that, Allan, against one of the finest shots in England.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Lord Ragnall, laughing pleasantly.  “I have an idea that Mr. Quatermain is full of surprises.  However, with his leave, we’ll see.  If you have a day to spare, Mr. Quatermain, we are going to shoot through the home coverts to-morrow, which haven’t been touched till now, and I hope you will join us.”

“It is most kind of you, but that is impossible,” I answered with firmness.  “I have no gun here.”

“Oh, never mind that, Mr. Quatermain.  I have a pair of breech-loaders”—­these were new things at that date—­“which have been sent down to me to try.  I am going to return them, because they are much too short in the stock for me.  I think they would just suit you, and you are quite welcome to the use of them.”