g and portly person,
arrayed in a velvet coat and a scarlet waistcoat, approached with
the air of an emperor, followed by an individual in whom I recognized
Charles, carrying a gun under each arm.

"That's the head-keeper," whispered Scroope; "mind you treat him
respectfully."

Much alarmed, I took off my hat and waited.

"Do I speak to Mr. Allan Quatermain?" said his majesty in a deep and
rumbling voice, surveying me the while with a cold and disapproving eye.

I intimated that he did.

"Then, sir," he went on, pausing a little at the "sir," as though he
suspected me of being no more than an African colleague of his own, "I
have been ordered by his lordship to bring you these guns, and I hope,
sir, that you will be careful of them, as they are here on sale or
return. Charles, explain the working of them there guns to this foreign
gentleman, and in doing so keep the muzzles up _or_ down. They ain't
loaded, it's true, but the example is always useful."

"Thank you, Mr. Keeper," I replied, growing somewhat nettled, "but I
think that I am already acquainted with most that there is to learn
about guns."

"I am glad to hear it, sir," said his majesty with evident disbelief.
"Charles, I understand that Squire Scroope is going to load for the
gentleman, which I hope he knows how to do with safety. His lordship's
orders are that you accompany them and carry the cartridges. And,
Charles, you will please keep count of the number fired and what
is killed dead, not reckoning runners. I'm sick of them stories of
runners."

These directions were given in a portentous stage aside which we were
not supposed to hear. They caused Scroope to snigger and Charles to
grin, but in me they raised a feeling of indignation.

I took one of the guns and looked at it. It was a costly and beautifully
made weapon of the period, with an under-lever action.

"There's nothing wrong with the gun, sir," rumbled Red Waistcoat. "If
you hold it straight it will do the rest. But keep the muzzle up, sir,
keep it up, for I know what the bore is without studying the same with
my eye. Also perhaps you won't take it amiss if I tell you that here at
Ragnall we hates a low pheasant. I mention it because the last gentleman
who came from foreign parts--he was French, he was--shot nothing all day
but one hen bird sitting just on the top of the brush, two beaters, his
lordship's hat, and a starling."

At this point Scroope broke into a roar of idiotic laug