To begin with, he was a cadet of a fine old English county family, some of the members of which were celebrated in the world of English sport during the early part of the nineteenth century, and whose name, like that of Osbaldistone, is still treasured by all true votaries of Diana. Well, Conway in no way disgraced the family reputation as a horseman, he being one of the very best I have ever seen, and would, provided his lot had been cast in the shires, have gained a place in sporting song and story as well as his ancestors. After having been sent home from Eton for some mad escapade, he joined a crack cavalry corps, and had to send in his papers, owing to his having mistaken his colonel's pet charger for a horse belonging to a newly joined cornet. Now this charger was held as sacred in the corps as the mares of Mahomet were held by the Moslems, but Conway, after a heavy night in the mess, converted it, with considerable artistic taste and skill, and a couple of pots of paint, into a zebra. On leaving the service--as he was over head and ears in debt to the Jew sharks, who in those days battened on the follies of young officers--troth! they do it still, when not more lucratively employed in the art of bogus company promoting, and other congenial pursuits--his people thought a _tour du monde_ would be a salutary exercise for him, and that if he could pick out some salubrious spot about half-way round, and make a permanent camp there, why, so much the better for them. So Mad Conway landed in South Africa some time in the fifties. Now what he originally intended to do there I don't know, and I don't think he knew himself; but he certainly wandered all over the country, taking a hand wherever the chance occurred in any Kafir fighting that might be going on, and putting in his spare time big-game hunting and exploring.