Then I snatched the other rifle, which Charles had been loading
automatically, from his outstretched hand, for at that moment I saw two
more pigeons coming. At the first I risked a difficult shot and hit it
far back, knocking out its tail, but bringing it, still fluttering, to
the ground. The other, too, I covered, but when I touched the trigger
there was a click, no more.

This was my opportunity of coming even with Charles, and I availed
myself of it.

"Young man," I said, while he gaped at me open-mouthed, "you should
learn to be careful with rifles, which are dangerous weapons. If you
give one to a shooter that is not loaded, it shows that you are capable
of anything."

Then I turned, and addressing Lord Ragnall, added:

"I must apologize for that third shot of mine, which was infamous, for
I committed a similar fault to that against which I warned you, sir,
and did not fire far enough ahead. However, it may serve to show your
attendant the difference between the tail of a pigeon and an oak leaf,"
and I pointed to one of the feathers of the poor bird, which was still
drifting to the ground.

"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