“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.” Again I excused myself, guessing that the discomfited Charles would put all sorts of stories about concerning me, and not wishing to look foolish before a party of grand strangers, no doubt chosen for their skill at this particular form of sport. “Well, Allan,” exclaimed Scroope, who always had a talent for saying the wrong thing, “you are quite right not to go into a competition with Lord Ragnall over high pheasants.” I flushed, for there was some truth in his blundering remark, whereon Lord Ragnall said with ready tact: “I asked Mr. Quatermain to shoot, not to a shooting match, Scroope, and I hope he’ll come.” This left me no option, and with a sinking heart I had to accept. “Sorry I can’t ask you too, Scroope,” said his lordship, when details had been arranged, “but we can only manage seven guns at this shoot. But will you and Miss Manners come to dine and sleep to-morrow evening? I should like to introduce your future wife to my future wife,” he added, colouring a little.