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.