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It was on the very last evening of my stay at his house that he told ensuing story to me and Captain jack, who was also dining with him. He had eat his dinner and drunk two or three glasses of old port, just to to help Jack and myself to the end of the second bottle. It was an unusual thing for him to do, for he was a most abstemious man, having concieved, as he used to say, a great horror of drink from observing it's effects up on the class of colonists - hunters, transport riders and others - amongst whom he had past so many years of his life. Consequently the good wine taken more effect on him than it would have done on most man, sending a little flush into his rinkled cheeks, and making him talk more freely then usual.
Dear old man! I can see him now, as he went limping up and down the vestibule, with his grey hair sticking up in a scrubbing-brush fashion, his shrivelled yellow face, and his large dark eye that were more keen than a hawk's, and yet soft as a bucks. The whole room was hung by him with trophies of his numerous hunting expeditions and he had some story about everyone of them, if only he could be got to tell it. Generally he would not, for he was not very fond of narrating his own adventures but tonight the port wine maid him more communicative.
"Ah, you brute!" he said, as he pause beneath an extremely large skull of a lion, which was which was fixed just over the mantelpiece, beneath long row of guns, its jaw's distended to there utmost width. "Ah, you brute! you have given me a lot of trouble for the last dozen year, and will, I suppose to my dying day."