He was a modest man, and yet he knew that he was reckoned among the big-game hunters of the age.

This man had fired as quickly as himself, and there were two small trickling holes in the animal's head.
While he was being quietly scrutinised Jack Meredith stooped down, and, taking the leopard beneath the shoulders, lifted it bodily back from the pool of blood.
"Pity to spoil the skin," he explained, as he put a fresh cartridge into his rifle.
Oscard nodded in an approving way.

He knew the weight of a full-grown male leopard, all muscle and bone, and he was one of those old-fashioned persons mentioned in the Scriptures as taking a delight in a man's legs--or his arms, so long as they were strong.
"I suppose," he said quietly, "we had better skin him here." As he spoke he drew a long hunting-knife, and, slashing down a bunch of the maidenhair fern that grew like nettles around them, he wiped the blood gently, almost affectionately, from the leopard's cat-like face.
There was about these two men a strict attention to the matter in hand, a mutual and common respect for all things pertaining to sport, a quiet sense of settling down without delay to the regulation of necessary detail that promised well for any future interest they might have in common.
So these highly-educated young gentlemen turned up their sleeves and steeped themselves to the elbow in gore.

Moreover, they did it with a certain technical skill and a distinct sense of enjoyment.

Truly, the modern English gentleman is a strange being.