SHOOTING 5 



my nurse telling me in awestruck tones that she 

 had once seen the late Mr. Ruskin gaze with a 

 pecuhar fascinated look, in which surprise and 

 admiration appeared to be struggling for su- 

 premacy, at the frieze of tarpon's scales which 

 adorned my uncle's dining-room. Quite five 

 minutes elapsed, so my nurse assured me, before 

 the great man passed his hand rapidly across 

 his eyes and turned with a long-drawn sigh to 

 the cases of embalmed penguins that were 

 ranged along the walls of the principal passages. 

 It was even rumoured, with what foundation of 

 truth I am unable to state, that the King of the 

 Belgians had offered an enormous sum for the 

 huge skeleton of an anthropoid ape which was 

 the chief feature of my dear aunt's boudoir, but 

 which, out of respect for her memory, Uncle 

 Noel resolutely declined to part with. 



The happiest days of my youth were passed 

 at the Grange. In the congenial society of my 

 uncle, and amid such surroundings as I have 

 endeavoured to describe, it was not surprising 

 that I should have become imbued at an early 

 age with that sporting instinct which has been 

 a dominant characteristic of the Biffin family 

 for many generations, and is by no means the 

 least valuable heritage of our Anglo-Saxon race. 

 As a careless schoolboy I would spend many hours 

 in the gun-room listening to the head game- 



