The Gorilla Hunters

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?”

“I think it will,” said I, laughing.

“Then off with it, Ralph,” cried my volatile friend, jumping up and looking hastily round for the bell-rope. Not being able to find it, my bell-pull being an unobtrusive knob and not a rope, he rushed to the door, unlocked it, darted out, and uttered a tremendous roar, which was followed by a clatter and a scream from old Agnes, whom he had upset and tumbled over.

It was curious to note the sudden change that took place in Peterkin’s face, voice, and manner, as he lifted the poor old woman, who was very thin and light, in his arms, and carrying her into the room, placed her in my easy-chair. Real anxiety was depicted in his countenance, and he set her down with a degree of care and tenderness that quite amazed me. I was myself very much alarmed at first.

“My poor dear old woman,” said Peterkin, supporting my landlady’s head; “my stupid haste I fear you are hurt.”

“Hech! it’s nae hurt—it’s deed I am, fair deed; killed be a whaumlskamerin’ young blagyird. Oh, ma puir heed!”

The manner and tone in which this was said convinced me that old Agnes was more frightened than injured. In a few minutes the soothing tones and kind manner of my friend had such an effect upon her that she declared she was better, and believed after all that she was only a “wee bit frichtened.” Nay, so completely was she conciliated, that she insisted on conveying the note to the post-office, despite Peterkin’s assurance that he would not hear of it. Finally she hobbled out of the room with the letter in her hand.

It is interesting to note how that, in most of the affairs of humanity, things turn out very different, often totally different, from what we had expected or imagined. During the remainder of that evening Peterkin and I talked frequently and much of our old friend Jack Martin. We recalled his manly yet youthful countenance, his bold, lion-like courage, his broad shoulders and winning gentle smile, and although we knew that six years must have made an immense difference in his personal appearance—for he was not much more than eighteen when we last parted—we could not think of him except as a hearty, strapping sailor-boy. We planned, too, how we would meet him at the coach; how we would stand aside in the crowd until he began to look about for us in surprise, and then one of us would step forward and ask if he wished to be directed to any particular part of the town, and so lead him on and talk to him as a stranger for some time before revealing who we were. And much more to the same effect. But when next day came our plans and our conceptions were utterly upset.

A little before two we sauntered down to the coach-office, and waited impatiently for nearly twenty minutes. Of course the coach was late; it always is on such occasions.

“Suppose he does not come,” said I.

“What a fellow you are,” cried Peterkin, “to make uncomfortable suppositions! Let us rather suppose that he does come.”

“Oh, then, it would be all right; but if he does not come, what then?”

“Why, then, it would be all wrong, and we should have to return home and eat our dinner in the sulks, that’s all.”

As my companion spoke we observed the coach come sweeping round the turn of the road about half a mile distant. In a few seconds it dashed into the town at full gallop, and finally drew up abruptly opposite the door of the inn, where were assembled the usual group of hostlers and waiters and people who expected friends by the coach.

“He’s not there,” whispered Peterkin, in deep disappointment—“at least he’s not on the outside, and Jack would never travel inside of a coach even in bad weather, much less in fine. That’s not him on the back-seat beside the fat old woman with the blue bundle, surely! It’s very like him, but too young, much too young. There’s a great giant of a man on the box-seat with a beard like a grenadier’s shako, and a stout old gentleman behind him with gold spectacles. That’s all, except two boys farther aft, and three ladies in the cabin. Oh, what a bore!”

Although deeply disappointed at the non-arrival of Jack, I could with difficulty refrain from smiling at the rueful and woe-begone countenance of my poor companion. It was evident that he could not bear disappointment with equanimity, and I was on the point of offering some consolatory remarks, when my attention was attracted by the little old woman with the blue bundle, who went up to the gigantic man with the black beard, and in the gentlest possible tone of voice asked if he could direct her to the white house.

“No, madam,” replied the big man hastily; “I’m a stranger here.”

The little old woman was startled by his abrupt answer. “Deary me, sir, no offence, I hope.”

She then turned to Peterkin and put the same question, possibly under a vague sort of impression that if a gigantic frame betokened a gruff nature, diminutive stature must necessarily imply extreme amiability. If so, she must have been much surprised as well as disappointed, for Peterkin, rendered irascible by disappointment, turned short round and said sharply, “Why, madam, how can I tell you where the white house is, unless you say which white house you want? Half the houses of the town are white—at least they’re dirty white,” he added bitterly, as he turned away.

“I think I can direct you, ma’am,” said I, stepping quickly up with a bland smile, in order to counteract, if possible, my companion’s rudeness.

“Thank you, sir, kindly,” said the little old woman; “I’m glad to find some little civility in the town.”

“Come with me, ma’am; I am going past the white house, and will show you the way.”

“And pray, sir,” said the big stranger, stepping up to me as I was about to move away, “can you recommend me to a good hotel?”

I replied that I could; that there was one in the immediate vicinity of the white house, and that if he would accompany me I would show him the way. All this I did purposely in a very affable and obliging tone and manner; for I hold that example is infinitely better than precept, and always endeavour, if possible, to overcome evil with good. I offered my arm to the old woman, who thanked me and took it.

“What!” whispered Peterkin, “you don’t mean me to take this great ugly gorilla in tow?”

“Of course,” replied I, laughing, as I led the way.

Immediately I entered into conversation with my companion, and I heard “the gorilla” attempt to do so with Peterkin; but from the few sharp cross replies that reached my ear, I became aware that he was unsuccessful. In the course of a few minutes, however, he appeared to have overcome his companion’s ill-humour, for I overheard their voices growing louder and more animated as they walked behind me.

Suddenly I heard a shout, and turning hastily round, observed Peterkin struggling in the arms of the gorilla! Amazed beyond measure at the sight, and firmly persuaded that a cowardly assault had been made upon my friend, I seized the old woman’s umbrella, as the only available weapon, and flew to the rescue.

“Jack, my boy! can it be possible?” gasped Peterkin.

“I believe it is,” replied Jack, laughing.—“Ralph, my dear old fellow, how are you?”