The rhino stumbled, crashed through a bush, and plunged, bellowing, into the gorge.

“Damn, damn, dash it all!” Lord Crowley lowered his rifle, but kept squinting his right eye as he gazed at the hole in the vegetation. “Not too cunning of me to hit him so close to the edge, eh? Pity. He would’ve been a fine specimen.”

“If I may,” ventured his hunting partner, Lord Weston, who somehow had yet to bag any game at all, “aren’t six specimens, as you say, quite enough?”

Crowley turned to face his companion. He was still squinting.

“Say, chap, do I detect a note of jealousy?” He opened both eyes wide and barked a laugh. “Yes, I do seem to have been laying claim to all the prizes!”

“No, it’s not so much a matter of pride,” Weston said, “as it is a matter of, well … .” He trailed off, lamely.

“I see, I see,” Crowley said, scanning the horizon. He squinted again. “You’re a bit squeamish on the killing, eh?”

He slapped at a mosquito that had pricked his neck. When his hand came away, there was a smear of blood.