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
shou