ALLAN MAKES A BET
On the following morning Scroope and I arrived at Castle Ragnall at or
about a quarter to ten. On our way we stopped to pick up my three
hundred and fifty cartridges. I had to pay something over three solid
sovereigns for them, as in those days such things were dear, which
showed me that I was not going to get my lesson in English pheasant
shooting for nothing. The gunsmith, however, to whom Scroope gave a
lift in his cart to the castle, impressed upon me that they were dirt
cheap, since he and his assistant had sat up most of the night loading
them with my special No. 3 shot.
As I climbed out of the vehicle a splendid-looking 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 laughter. Charles,
from whom Fortune decreed that I was not to escape, after all, turned
his back and doubled up as though seized with sudden pain in the
stomach, and I grew absolutely furious.
“Confound it, Mr. Keeper,” I explained, “what do you mean by lecturing
me? Attend to your business, and I’ll attend to mine.”
At this moment who should appear from behind the angle of some
building—we were talking in the stableyard, near the gun-room—but Lord
Ragnall himself. I could see that he had overheard the conversation,
for he looked angry.
“Jenkins,” he said, addressing the keeper, “do what Mr. Quatermain has
said and attend to your own business. Perhaps you are not aware that he
has shot more lions, elephants, and other big game than you have cats.
But, however that may be, it is not your place to try to instruct him
or any of my guests. Now go and see to the beaters.”
“Beg pardon, my lord,” ejaculated Jenkins, his face, that was as florid
as his waistcoat, turning quite pale; “no offence meant, my lord, but
elephants and lions don’t fly, my lord, and those accustomed to such
ground varmin are apt to shoot low, my lord. Beaters all ready at the
Hunt Copse, my lord.”
Thus speaking he backed himself out of sight. Lord Ragnall watched him
go, then said with a laugh:
“I apologize to you, Mr. Quatermain. That silly old fool was part of my
inheritance, so to speak; and the joke of it is that he is himself the
worst and most dangerous shot I ever saw. However, on the other hand,
he is the best rearer of pheasants in the county, so I put up with him.
Come in, now, won’t you? Charles will look after your guns and
cartridges.”
So Scroope and I were taken through a side entrance into the big hall
and there introduced to the other members of the shooting party, most
of whom were staying at the castle. They were famous shots. Indeed, I
had read of the prowess of some of them in _The Field_, a paper that I
always took in Africa, although often enough, when I was on my distant
expeditions, I did not see a copy of it for a year at a time.
To my astonishment I found that I knew one of these gentlemen. We had
not, it is true, met for a dozen years; but I seldom forget a face, and
I was sure that I could not be mistaken in this instance. That mean
appearance, those small, shifty grey eyes, that red, pointed nose could
belong to nobody except Van Koop, so famous in his day in South Africa
in connexion with certain gigantic and most successful frauds that the
law seemed quite unable to touch, of which frauds I had been one of the
many victims to the extent of £250, a large sum for me.
The last time we met there had been a stormy scene between us, which
ended in my declaring in my wrath that if I came across him on the veld
I should shoot him at sight. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why
Mr. van Koop vanished from South Africa, for I may add that he was a
cur of the first water. I believe that he had only just entered the
room, having driven over from wherever he lived at some distance from
Ragnall. At any rate, he knew nothing of my presence at this shoot. Had
he known I am quite sure that he would have been absent. He turned, and
seeing me, ejaculated: “Allan Quatermain, by heaven!” beneath his
breath, but in such a tone of astonishment that it attracted the
attention of Lord Ragnall, who was standing near.
“Yes, Mr. van Koop,” I answered in a cheerful voice, “Allan Quatermain,
no other, and I hope you are as glad to see me as I am to see you.”
“I think there is some mistake,” said Lord Ragnall, staring at us.
“This is Sir Junius Fortescue, who used to be Mr. Fortescue.”
“Indeed,” I replied. “I don’t know that I ever remember his being
called by that particular name, but I do know that we are old—friends.”
Lord Ragnall moved away as though he did not wish to continue the
conversation, which no one else had overheard, and Van Koop sidled up
to me.
“Mr. Quatermain,” he said in a low voice, “circumstances have changed
with me since last we met.”
“So I gather,” I replied; “but mine have remained much the same, and if
it is convenient to you to repay me that £250 you owe me, with
interest, I shall be much obliged. If not, I think I have a good story
to tell about you.”
“Oh, Mr. Quatermain,” he answered with a sort of smile which made me
feel inclined to kick him, “you know I dispute that debt.”
“Do you?” I exclaimed. “Well, perhaps you will dispute the story also.
But the question is, will you be believed when I give the proofs?”
“Ever heard of the Statute of Limitations, Mr. Quatermain?” he asked
with a sneer.
“Not where character is concerned,” I replied stoutly. “Now, what are
you going to do?”
He reflected for a moment, and answered:
“Look here, Mr. Quatermain, you were always a bit of a sportsman, and
I’ll make you an offer. If I kill more birds than you do to-day, you
shall promise to hold your tongue about my affairs in South Africa; and
if you kill more than I do, you shall still hold your tongue, but I
will pay you that £250 and interest for six years.”
I also reflected for a moment, knowing that the man had something up
his sleeve. Of course, I could refuse and make a scandal. But that was
not in my line, and would not bring me nearer my £250, which, if I
chanced to win, might find its way back to me.
“All right, done!” I said.
“What is your bet, Sir Junius?” asked Lord Ragnall, who was approaching
again.
“It is rather a long story,” he answered, “but, to put it shortly,
years ago, when I was travelling in Africa, Mr. Quatermain and I had a
dispute as to a sum of £5 which he thought I owed him, and to save
argument about a trifle we have agreed that I should shoot against him
for it to-day.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Ragnall rather seriously, for I could see that he
did not believe Van Koop’s statement as to the amount of the bet;
perhaps he had heard more than we thought. “To be frank, Sir Junius, I
don’t much care for betting—for that’s what it comes to—here. Also I
think Mr. Quatermain said yesterday that he had never shot pheasants in
England, so the match seems scarcely fair. However, you gentlemen know
your own business best. Only I must tell you both that if money is
concerned, I shall have to set someone whose decision will be final to
count your birds and report the number to me.”
“Agreed,” said Van Koop, or, rather, Sir Junius; but I answered
nothing, for, to tell the truth, already I felt ashamed of the whole
affair.
As it happened, Lord Ragnall and I walked together ahead of the others,
to the first covert, which was half a mile or more away.
“You have met Sir Junius before?” he said to me interrogatively.
“I have met Mr. van Koop before,” I answered, “about twelve years
since, shortly after which he vanished from South Africa, where he was
a well-known and very successful—speculator.”
“To reappear here. Ten years ago he bought a large property in this
neighbourhood. Three years ago he became a baronet.”
“How did a man like Van Koop become a baronet?” I inquired.
“By purchase, I believe.”
“By purchase! Are honours in England purchased?”
“You are delightfully innocent, Mr. Quatermain, as a hunter from Africa
should be,” said Lord Ragnall, laughing. “Your friend——”
“Excuse me, Lord Ragnall, I am a very humble person, not so elevated,
indeed, as that gamekeeper of yours; therefore I should not venture to
call Sir Junius, late Mr. van Koop, my friend, at least in earnest.”
He laughed again.
“Well, the individual with whom you make bets subscribed largely to the
funds of his party. I am telling you what I know to be true, though the
amount I do not know. It has been variously stated to be from fifteen
to fifty thousand pounds, and, perhaps by coincidence, subsequently was
somehow created a baronet.”
I stared at him.
“That’s all the story,” he went on. “I don’t like the man myself, but
he is a wonderful pheasant shot, which passes him everywhere. Shooting
has become a kind of fetish in these parts, Mr. Quatermain. For
instance, it is a tradition on this estate that we must kill more
pheasants than on any other in the country, and therefore I have to ask
the best guns, who are not always the best fellows. It annoys me, but
it seems that I must do what was done before me.”
“Under those circumstances I should be inclined to give up the thing
altogether, Lord Ragnall. Sport as sport is good, but when it becomes a
business it grows hateful. I know, who have had to follow it as a trade
for many years.”
“That’s an idea,” he replied reflectively. “Meanwhile, I do hope that
you will win back your—£5 from Sir Junius. He is so vain that I would
gladly give £50 to see you do so.”
“There is little chance of that,” I said, “for, as I told you, I have
never shot pheasants before. Still, I’ll try, as you wish it.”
“That’s right. And look here, Mr. Quatermain, shoot well forward of
them. You see, I am venturing to advise you now, as you advised me
yesterday. Shot does not travel so fast as ball, and the pheasant is a
bird that is generally going much quicker than you think. Now, here we
are. Charles will show you your stand. Good luck to you.”
Ten minutes later the game began outside of a long covert, all the
seven guns being posted within sight of each other. So occupied was I
in watching the preliminaries, which were quite new to me, that I
allowed first a hare and then a hen pheasant to depart without firing
at them, which hen pheasant, by the way, curved round and was
beautifully killed by Van Koop, who stood two guns off upon my right.
“Look here, Allan,” said Scroope, “if you are going to beat your
African friend you had better wake up, for you won’t do it by admiring
the scenery or that squirrel on a tree.”
So I woke up. Just at that moment there was a cry of “cock forward.” I
thought it meant a cock pheasant, and was astonished when I saw a
beautiful brown bird with a long beak flitting towards me through the
tops of the oak trees.
“Am I to shoot at that?” I asked.
“Of course. It is a woodcock,” answered Scroope.
By this time the brown bird was rocking past me within ten yards. I
fired and killed it, for where it had been appeared nothing but a cloud
of feathers. It was a quick and clever shot, or so I thought. But when
Charles stepped out and picked from the ground only a beak and a head,
a titter of laughter went down the whole line of guns and loaders.
“I say, old chap,” said Scroope, “if you will use No. 3 shot, let your
birds get a little farther off you.”
The incident upset me so much that immediately afterwards I missed
three easy pheasants in succession, while Van Koop added two to his
bag.
Scroope shook his head and Charles groaned audibly. Now that I was not
in competition with his master he had become suddenly anxious that I
should win, for in some mysterious way the news of that bet had spread,
and my adversary was not popular amongst the keeper class.
“Here you come again,” said Scroope, pointing to an advancing pheasant.
It was an extraordinarily high pheasant, flushed, I think, outside the
covert by a stop, so high that, as it travelled down the line, although
three guns fired at it, including Van Koop, none of them seemed to
touch it. Then I fired, and remembering Lord Ragnall’s advice, far in
front. Its flight changed. Still it travelled through the air, but with
the momentum of a stone to fall fifty yards to my right, dead.
“That’s better!” said Scroope, while Charles grinned all over his round
face, muttering:
“Wiped his eye that time.”
This shot seemed to give me confidence, and I improved considerably,
though, oddly enough, I found that it was the high and difficult
pheasants which I killed and the easy ones that I was apt to muff. But
Van Koop, who was certainly a finished artist, killed both.
At the next stand Lord Ragnall, who had been observing my somewhat
indifferent performance, asked me to stand back with him behind the
other guns.
“I see the tall ones are your line, Mr. Quatermain,” he said, “and you
will get some here.”
On this occasion we were placed in a dip between two long coverts which
lay about three hundred yards apart. That which was being beaten proved
full of pheasants, and the shooting of those picked guns was really a
thing to see. I did quite well here, nearly, but not altogether, as
well as Lord Ragnall himself, though that is saying a great deal, for
he was a lovely shot.
“Bravo!” he said at the end of the beat. “I believe you have got a
chance of winning your £5, after all.”
When, however, at luncheon, more than an hour later, I found that I was
thirty pheasants behind my adversary, I shook my head, and so did
everybody else. On the whole, that luncheon, of which we partook in a
keeper’s house, was a very pleasant meal, though Van Koop talked so
continuously and in such a boastful strain that I saw it irritated our
host and some of the other gentlemen, who were very pleasant people. At
last he began to patronize me, asking me how I had been getting on with
my “elephant-potting” of late years.
I replied, “Fairly well.”
“Then you should tell our friends some of your famous stories, which I
promise I won’t contradict,” he said, adding: “You see, they are
different from us, and have no experience of big-game shooting.”
“I did not know that you had any, either, Sir Junius,” I answered,
nettled. “Indeed, I thought I remembered your telling me in Africa that
the only big game you had ever shot was an ox sick with the red-water.
Anyway, shooting is a business with me, not an amusement, as it is to
you, and I do not talk shop.”
At this he collapsed amid some laughter, after which Scroope, the most
loyal of friends, began to repeat exploits of mine till my ears
tingled, and I rose and went outside to look at the weather.
It had changed very much during luncheon. The fair promise of the
morning had departed, the sky was overcast, and a wind, blowing in
strong gusts, was rising rapidly, driving before it occasional scurries
of snow.
“My word,” said Lord Ragnall, who had joined me, “the Lake
covert—that’s our great stand here, you know—will take some shooting
this afternoon. We ought to kill seven hundred pheasants in it with
this team, but I doubt if we shall get five. Now, Mr. Quatermain, I am
going to stand Sir Junius Fortescue and you back in the covert, where
you will have the best of it, as a lot of pheasants will never face the
lake against this wind. What is more, I am coming with you, if I may,
as six guns are enough for this beat, and I don’t mean to shoot any
more to-day.”
“I fear that you will be disappointed,” I said nervously.
“Oh, no, I sha’n’t,” he answered. “I tell you frankly that if only you
could have a season’s practice, in my opinion you would make the best
pheasant shot of the lot of us. At present you don’t quite understand
the ways of the birds, that’s all; also those guns are strange to you.
Have a glass of cherry brandy; it will steady your nerves.”
I drank the cherry brandy, and presently off we went. The covert we
were going to shoot, into which we had been driving pheasants all the
morning, must have been nearly a mile long. At the top end it was
broad, narrowing at the bottom to a width of about two hundred yards.
Here it ran into a horse-shoe shaped piece of water that was about
fifty yards in breadth. Four of the guns were placed round the bow of
this water, but on its farther side, in such a position that the
pheasants should stream over them to yet another covert behind at the
top of a slope, Van Koop and I, however, were ordered to take our
places, he to the right and I to the left, about seventy yards up the
tongue in little glades in the woodland, having the lake to our right
and our left respectively. I noticed with dismay that we were so set
that the guns below us on its farther side could note all that we did
or did not do; also that a little band of watchers, among whom I
recognized my friend the gunsmith, were gathered in a place where,
without interfering with us, they could see the sport. On our way to
the boat, however, which was to row us across the water, an incident
happened that put me in very good spirits and earned some applause.
I was walking with Lord Ragnall, Scroope and Charles, about sixty yards
clear of a belt of tall trees, when from far away on the other side of
the trees came a cry of “Partridges over!” in the hoarse voice of the
red-waistcoated Jenkins, who was engaged in superintending the driving
in of some low scrub before he joined his army at the top of the
covert.
“Look out, Mr. Quatermain, they are coming this way,” said Lord
Ragnall, while Charles thrust a loaded gun into my hand.
Another moment and they appeared over the tree-tops, a big covey of
them in a long, straggling line, travelling at I know not what speed,
for a fierce gust from the rising gale had caught them. I fired at the
first bird, which fell at my feet. I fired again, and another fell
behind me. I snatched up the second gun and killed a third as it passed
over me high up. Then, wheeling round, I covered the last retreating
bird, and lo! it too fell, a very long shot indeed.
“By George!” said Scroope, “I never saw that done before,” while
Ragnall stared and Charles whistled.
But now I will tell the truth and expose all my weakness. The second
bird was not the one I aimed at. I was behind it and caught that which
followed. And in my vanity I did not own up, at least not till that
evening.
The four dead partridges—there was not a runner among them—having been
collected amidst many congratulations, we went on and were punted
across the lake to the covert. As we entered the boat I observed that,
in addition to the great bags, Charles was carrying a box of cartridges
under his arm, and asked him where he got it from.
He replied, from Mr. Popham—that was the gunsmith’s name—who had
brought it with him in case I should not have enough. I made no remark,
but as I knew I had quite half of my cartridges left out of the three
hundred and fifty that I had bought, I wondered to myself what kind of
a shoot this was going to be.
Well, we took up our stands, and while we were doing so, suddenly the
wind increased to a tearing gale, which seemed to me to blow from all
points of the compass in turn. Rooks flying homewards, and pigeons
disturbed by the beaters were swept over us like drifting leaves; wild
duck, of which I got one, went by like arrows; the great bare oaks
tossed their boughs and groaned; while not far off a fir tree was blown
down, falling with a splash into the water.
“It’s a wild afternoon,” said Lord Ragnall, and as he spoke Van Koop
came from his stand, looking rather scared, and suggested that the
shoot should be given up.
Lord Ragnall asked me what I wished to do. I replied that I would
rather go on, but that I was in his hands.
“I think we are fairly safe in these open places, Sir Junius,” he said;
“and as the pheasants have been so much disturbed already, it does not
much matter if they are blown about a bit. But if you are of another
opinion, perhaps you had better get out of it and stand with the others
over the lake. I’ll send for my guns and take your place.”
On hearing this Van Koop changed his mind and said that he would go on.
So the beat began. At first the wind blew from behind us, and pheasants
in increasing numbers passed over our heads, most of them rather low,
to the guns on the farther side of the water, who, skilled though they
were, did not make very good work with them. We had been instructed not
to fire at birds going forward, so I let these be. Van Koop, however,
did not interpret the order in the same spirit, for he loosed at
several, killing one or two and missing others.
“That fellow is no sportsman,” I heard Lord Ragnall remark. “I suppose
it is the bet.”
Then he sent Charles to ask him to desist.
Shortly after this the gale worked round to the north and settled
there, blowing with ever-increasing violence. The pheasants, however,
still flew forward in the shelter of the trees, for they were making
for the covert on the hill, where they had been bred. But when they got
into the open and felt the full force of the wind, quite four out of
six of them turned and came back at a most fearful pace, many so high
as to be almost out of shot.
For the next three-quarters of an hour or more—as I think I have
explained, the beat was a very long one—I had such covert shooting as I
suppose I shall never see again. High above those shrieking trees, or
over the lake to my left, flashed the wind-driven pheasants in an
endless procession. Oddly enough, I found that this wild work suited
me, for as time went on and the pheasants grew more and more
impossible, I shot better and better. One after another down they came
far behind me with a crash in the brushwood or a splash in the lake,
till the guns grew almost too hot to hold. There were so many of them
that I discovered I could pick my shots; also that nine out of ten were
caught by the wind and curved at a certain angle, and that the time to
fire was just before they took the curve. The excitement was great and
the sport splendid, as anyone will testify who has shot December
pheasants breaking back over the covert and in a tearing gale. Van Koop
also was doing very well, but the guns in front got comparatively
little shooting. They were forced to stand there, poor fellows, and
watch our performance from afar.
As the thing drew towards an end the birds came thicker and thicker,
and I shot, as I have said, better and better. This may be judged from
the fact that, notwithstanding their height and tremendous pace, I
killed my last thirty pheasants with thirty-five cartridges. The final
bird of all, a splendid cock, appeared by himself out of nothingness
when we thought that all was done. I think it must have been flushed
from the covert on the hill, or been turned back just as it reached it
by the resistless strength of the storm. Over it came, so high above us
that it looked quite small in the dark snow-scud.
“Too far—no use!” said Lord Ragnall, as I lifted the gun.
Still, I fired, holding I know not how much in front, and lo! that
pheasant died in mid air, falling with a mighty splash near the bank of
the lake, but at a great distance behind us. The shot was so remarkable
that everyone who saw it, including most of the beaters, who had passed
us by now, uttered a cheer, and the red-waistcoated old Jenkins, who
had stopped by us, remarked: “Well, bust me if that bain’t a master
one!”
Scroope made me angry by slapping me so hard upon the back that it
hurt, and nearly caused me to let off the other barrel of the gun.
Charles seemed to become one great grin, and Lord Ragnall, with a brief
congratulatory “Never enjoyed a shoot so much in my life,” called to
the men who were posted behind us to pick up all the dead pheasants,
being careful to keep mine apart from those of Sir Junius Fortescue.
“You should have a hundred and forty-three at this stand,” he said,
“allowing for every possible runner. Charles and I make the same
total.”
I remarked that I did not think there were many runners, as the No. 3
shot had served me very well, and getting into the boat was rowed to
the other side, where I received more congratulations. Then, as all
further shooting was out of the question because of the weather, we
walked back to the castle to tea.
As I emptied my cup Lord Ragnall, who had left the room, returned and
asked us to come and see the game. So we went, to find it laid out in
endless lines upon the snow-powdered grass in the quadrangle of the
castle, arranged in one main and two separate lots.
“Those are yours and Sir Junius’s,” said Scroope. “I wonder which of
you has won. I’ll put a sovereign on you, old fellow.”
“Then you’re a donkey for your pains,” I answered, feeling vexed, for
at that moment I had forgotten all about the bet.
I do not remember how many pheasants were killed altogether, but the
total was much smaller than had been hoped for, because of the gale.
“Jenkins,” said Lord Ragnall presently to Red Waistcoat, “how many have
you to the credit of Sir Junius Fortescue?”
“Two hundred and seventy-seven, my lord, twelve hares, two woodcocks,
and three pigeons.”
“And how many to that of Mr. Quatermain?” adding: “I must remind you
both, gentlemen, that the birds have been picked as carefully as
possible and kept unmixed, and therefore that the figures given by
Jenkins must be considered as final.”
“Quite so,” I answered, 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 £5, 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 £5 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 killed, for the limbs were quite flexible.
“That turns the scale in favour of Mr. Quatermain,” he said, “so, Sir
Junius, you had better pay your money and congratulate him, as I do.”
“I protest,” exclaimed Van Koop, looking very angry and meaner than
usual. “How am I to know that this was Mr. Quatermain’s pheasant? The
sum involved is more than £5 and I feel it is my duty to protest.”
“Because my men say so, Sir Junius; moreover, seeing the height from
which the bird fell, their story is obviously true.”
Then he examined the pheasant further, pointing out that it appeared to
have only one wound—a shot through the throat almost exactly at the
root of the beak, of which shot there was no mark of exit. “What sized
shot were you using, Sir Junius?” he asked.
“No. 4 at the last stand.”
“And you were using No. 3, Mr. Quatermain. Now, was any other gun using
No. 3?”
All shook their heads.
“Jenkins, open that bird’s head. I think the shot that killed it will
be found in the brain.”
Jenkins obeyed, using a penknife cleverly enough. Pressed against the
bone of the skull he found the shot.
“No. 3 it is, sure enough, my lord,” he said.
“You will agree that settles the matter, Sir Junius,” said Lord
Ragnall. “And now, as a bet has been made here it had better be paid.”
“I have not enough money on me,” said Van Koop sulkily.
“I think your banker is mine,” said Lord Ragnall quietly, “so you can
write a cheque in the house. Come in, all of you, it is cold in this
wind.”
So we went into the smoking-room, and Lord Ragnall, who, I could see,
was annoyed, instantly fetched a blank cheque from his study and handed
it to Van Koop in rather a pointed manner.
He took it, and turning to me, said:
“I remember the capital sum, but how much is the interest? Sorry to
trouble you, but I am not very good at figures.”
“Then you must have changed a good deal during the last twelve years,
Sir Junius,” I could not help saying. “Still, never mind the interest,
I shall be quite satisfied with the principal.”
So he filled up the cheque for £250 and threw it down on the table
before me, saying something about its being a bother to mix up business
with pleasure.
I took the draft, saw that it was correct though rather illegible, and
proceeded to dry it by waving it in the air. As I did so it came into
my mind that I would not touch the money of this successful scamp, won
back from him in such a way.
Yielding to a perhaps foolish impulse, I said:
“Lord Ragnall, this cheque is for a debt which years ago I wrote off as
lost. At luncheon to-day you were talking of a Cottage Hospital for
which you are trying to get up an endowment fund in this neighbourhood,
and in answer to a question from you Sir Junius Fortescue said that he
had not as yet made any subscription to its fund. Will you allow me to
hand you Sir Junius’s subscription—to be entered in his name, if you
please?” And I passed him the cheque, which was drawn to myself or
bearer.
He looked at the amount, and seeing that it was not £5, but £250,
flushed, then asked:
“What do you say to this act of generosity on the part of Mr.
Quatermain, Sir Junius?”
There was no answer, because Sir Junius had gone. I never saw him
again, for years ago the poor man died quite disgraced. His passion for
semi-fraudulent speculations reasserted itself, and he became a
bankrupt in conditions which caused him to leave the country for
America, where he was killed in a railway accident while travelling as
an immigrant. I have heard, however, that he was not asked to shoot at
Ragnall any more.
The cheque was passed to the credit of the Cottage Hospital, but not,
as I had requested, as a subscription from Sir Junius Fortescue. A
couple of years later, indeed, I learned that this sum of money was
used to build a little room in that institution to accommodate sick
children, which room was named the Allan Quatermain ward.
Now, I have told this story of that December shoot because it was the
beginning of my long and close friendship with Ragnall.
When he found that Van Koop had gone away without saying good-bye, Lord
Ragnall made no remark. Only he took my hand and shook it.
I have only to add that, although, except for the element of
competition which entered into it, I enjoyed this day’s shooting very
much indeed, when I came to count up its cost I felt glad that I had
not been asked to any more such entertainments. Here it is, taken from
an old note-book:
Cartridges, including those not used and given to Charles £4 0 0
Game Licence 3 0 0
Tip to Red Waistcoat (keeper) 2 0 0
Tip to Charles 0 10 0
Tip to man who helped Charles to find pheasant 0 5 0
Tip to man who collected pheasants behind me 0 10 0
————-
£10 5 0
————-
Truly pheasant shooting in England is, or was, a sport for the rich!