wered, 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."

Then, just as we turned to go, something happened. The round-eyed
Charles ran puffing into the quadrangle, followed by another man with
a dog, who had been specially set to pick my birds, and carrying in his
hand a much-bedraggled cock pheasant without a tail.

"I've got him, my lord," he gasped, for he had run very fast; "the
little gent's--I mean that which he killed in the clouds with the last
shot he fired. It had gone right down into the mud and stuck there. Tom
and me fished him up with a pole."

Lord Ragnall took the bird and looked at it. It was almost cold, but
evidently freshly kille