A LETTER OF INVITATION. 3 



in Herefordshire, wondering how I could kill time, de- 

 bating whether to take my rod and try the lovely little 

 Mathon brook, or saunter up some of the hill-sides, and 

 watch the antics of the playful rabbits, when the always- 

 looked-for event of the day the arrival of the letter- 

 bag took place. " Old man," said my host, " here is 

 a letter for you." I took it, looked at the address, and 

 knew not the writing. The Scotch postmark puzzled 

 me still more. The contents were surprising, terse, and 

 to the point. " Will you accompany me on a hunting- 

 trip to Tropical South Africa for a year or two ? " That 

 night the mail took my answer, in which I asked for 

 an interview. A week after, my future companion 

 and self could have been found closeted in a most snug 

 apartment half bed, half sitting room the window, 

 gently touched by the spray-like limbs of a graceful 

 birch-tree, while on the table stood a decanter of Amon- 

 tillado sherry, surrounded by cigars, or their remains. 



I do not wish to add one word of fiction, but during 

 nearly that entire night and we did not retire to our 

 dormitories till long after the sun had risen from his 

 eastern couch a nightingale warbled from the adjacent 

 bushes. 



My new friend afterwards my tried companion I 

 will call Morris, and a description of him may not be 

 inappropriate. He was the same height as myself 

 six feet but slighter in build, his weight being twelve 

 stone three, mine being just under thirteen upright, 

 well-made, very quiet, gentlemanly, and unassuming. 

 Although under thirty, he had travelled all over the 

 world, hunted in the Eocky Mountains, killed large 

 game in India and the Malay Archipelago, and bagged 

 wild fowl, pheasants, and snipe in China and Japan. 

 B 2 



