“No,” said I, “it does not. I am only an amateur, having a sufficiency of this world’s goods to live on without working for my bread. But although my dear father at his death left me a small fortune, which yields me three hundred a year, I do not feel entitled to lead the life of an idler in this busy world, where so many are obliged to toil night and day for the bare necessaries of life. I have therefore taken to my favourite studies as a sort of business, and flatter myself that I have made one or two not unimportant discoveries, and added a few mites to the sum of human knowledge. A good deal of my time is spent in scientific roving expeditions throughout the country, and in contributing papers to several magazines.”

While I was thus speaking I observed that Peterkin’s face was undergoing the most remarkable series of changes of expression, which, as I concluded, merged into a smile of beaming delight, as he said,—“Ralph, you’re a trump!”

“Possibly,” said I, “you are right; but, setting that question aside for the present, let me remind you that you have not yet told me where you mean to go to.”

“I mean,” said Peterkin slowly, placing both hands on his knees and looking me steadily in the face—“I mean to go a-hunting in—but I forgot. You don’t know that I’m a hunter, a somewhat famous hunter?”

“Of course I don’t. You are so full of your plans and proposals that you have not yet told me where you have been or what doing these six years. And you ye never written to me once all that time, shabby fellow. I thought you were dead.”

“Did you go into mourning for me, Ralph?”

“No, of course not.”

“A pretty fellow you are to find fault. You thought that I, your oldest and best friend, was dead, and you did not go into mourning. How could I write to you when you parted from me without giving me your address? It was a mere chance my finding you out even now. I was taking a quiet cup of coffee in the commercial room of a hotel not far distant, when I overheard a stranger speaking of his friend ‘Ralph Rover, the philosopher,’ so I plunged at him promiscuously, and made him give me your address. But I’ve corresponded with Jack ever since we parted on the pier at Dover.”

“What! Jack—Jack Martin?” I exclaimed, as a warm gush of feeling filled my heart at the sound of his well-remembered name. “Is Jack alive?”

“Alive! I should think so. If possible, he’s more alive than ever; for I should suppose he must be full-grown now, which he was not when we last met. He and I have corresponded regularly. He lives in the north of England, and by good luck happens to be just now within thirty miles of this town. You don’t mean to say, Ralph, that you have never met!”

“Never. The very same mistake that happened with you occurred between him and me. We parted vowing to correspond as long as we should live, and three hours after I remembered that we had neglected to exchange our addresses, so that we could not correspond. I have often, often made inquiries both for you and him, but have always failed. I never heard of Jack from the time we parted at Dover till to-day.”

“Then no doubt you thought us both dead, and yet you did not go into mourning for either of us! O Ralph, Ralph, I had entertained too good an opinion of you.”

“But tell me about Jack,” said I, impatient to hear more concerning my dear old comrade.

“Not just now, my boy; more of him in a few minutes. First let us return to the point. What was it? Oh! a—about my being a celebrated hunter. A very Nimrod—at least a miniature copy. Well, Ralph, since we last met I have been all over the world, right round and round it. I’m a lieutenant in the navy now—at least I was a week ago. I’ve been fighting with the Kaffirs and the Chinamen, and been punishing the rascally sepoys in India, and been hunting elephants in Ceylon and tiger-shooting in the jungles, and harpooning whales in the polar seas, and shooting lions at the Cape; oh, you’ve no notion where all I’ve been. It’s a perfect marvel I’ve turned up here alive. But there’s one beast I’ve not yet seen, and I’m resolved to see him and shoot him too—”

“But,” said I, interrupting, “what mean you by saying that you were a lieutenant in the navy a week ago?”

“I mean that I’ve given it up. I’m tired of the sea. I only value it as a means of getting from one country to another. The land, the land for me! You must know that an old uncle, a rich old uncle of mine, whom I never saw, died lately and left me his whole fortune. Of course he died in India. All old uncles who die suddenly and leave unexpected fortunes to unsuspecting nephews are old Indian uncles, and mine was no exception to the general rule. So I’m independent, like you, Ralph, only I’ve got three or four thousand a year instead of hundreds, I believe; but I’m not sure and don’t care—and I’m determined now to go on a long hunting expedition. What think ye of all that, my boy?”

“In truth,” said I, “it would puzzle me to say what I think, I am so filled with surprise by all you tell me. But you forget that you have not yet told me to which part of the world you mean to go, and what sort of beast it is you are so determined to see and shoot if you can.”

“If I can!” echoed Peterkin, with a contemptuous curl of the lip. “Did not I tell you that I was a celebrated hunter? Without meaning to boast, I may tell you that there is no peradventure in my shooting. If I only get there and see the brute within long range, I’ll—ha! won’t I!”

“Get where, and see what?”

“Get to Africa and see the gorilla!” cried Peterkin, while a glow of enthusiasm lighted up his eyes. “You’ve heard of the gorilla, Ralph, of course—the great ape—the enormous puggy—the huge baboon—the man monkey, that we’ve been hearing so much of for some years back, and that the niggers on the African coast used to dilate about till they caused the very hair of my head to stand upon end? I’m determined to shoot a gorilla, or prove him to be a myth. And I mean you to come and help me, Ralph; he’s quite in your way. A bit of natural history, I suppose, although he seems by all accounts to be a very unnatural monster. And Jack shall go too—I’m resolved on that; and we three shall roam the wild woods again, as we did in days of yore, and—”

“Hold, Peterkin,” said I, interrupting. “How do you know that Jack will go?”

“How do I know? Intuitively, of course. I shall write to him to-night; the post does not leave till ten. He’ll get it to-morrow at breakfast, and will catch the forenoon coach, which will bring him down here by two o’clock, and then we’ll begin our preparations at once, and talk the matter over at dinner. So you see it’s all cut and dry. Give me a sheet of paper and I’ll write at once. Ah! here’s a bit; now a pen. Bless me, Ralph, haven’t you got a quill? Who ever heard of a philosophical naturalist writing with steel. Now, then, here goes:– ‘B’luv’d Jack,’—will that do to begin with, eh? I’m afraid it’s too affectionate; he’ll think it’s from a lady friend. But it can’t be altered,—‘Here I am, and here’s Ralph—Ralph Rover!!!!!! think of that,’ (I say, Ralph, I’ve put six marks of admiration there); ‘I’ve found him out. Do come to see us. Excruciatingly important business. Ever thine—Peterkin Gay.’ Will that bring him, d’ye think?”

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