Free Mr Darwin's Shooter by Roger McDonald Page A

not to be believed, so much of their lives being fanciful.
    So it did not astonish MacCracken as much as it might have when Covington, holding a few struggling wrigglers in his outdoorsman’s palm for MacCracken’s admiration, gave their names in Latin. ‘ Leptosomus , a weevil. Ontiscus , a seed bug. I was first to catch these,’ Covington croaked triumphantly, ‘in this very place where we are.’
    MacCracken believed that Covington meant he was firstbetween the two of them, referring to their mutual competitiveness. The doctor went on his way chuckling over Covington’s clumsy pretensions. He was ‘off’ the fellow today. MacCracken had seen Covington’s type at operatic concerts, men who had made their pile ‘up country’ clutching their programs as if they would strangle them, and popping their eyes from the effort of enjoyment and mouthing a few words of libretti taught them by daughters and wives. As with opera so with bugs. MacCracken put Covington in a box labelled ‘Old Stager’, smiled at him, shook his hand heartily, slapped him on the back, and made noises Covington would never hear.
    Covington’s other task on this stay was to attend to their business together. This suited MacCracken fine. After studying his ledger books Covington snarled, ‘You need boxin’ around the ears, young fella,’ and took the books back to ‘Coral Sands’ and tidied them into columns. Then, without much ceremony, he was gone.

Thus MacCracken became Covington’s beneficiary before he ever knew him at all. Covington’s generosity fell upon the lanky Bostonian like spangles of light on the brow of a child. Covington’s word was his bond in all his dealings, with everything down to the most niggling percentage point committed to memory. Not once did MacCracken question this generosity’s foundations by asking himself what motive Covington might have beyond gratitude. As well question the loyalty of a dog when it came licking his hand, transferring its affections. The idea that Covington was looking for more meaning than a soul could bear and that MacCracken was the agent of that meaning would have struck him dumb.
    â€˜Forget the gold rushes and the delights of land-taking,’ MacCracken confided to his friend Evans, the bookseller, as he placed an order for anything brand spanking new in natural history, ‘if such friends as Mr Covington stumble into your days and bring you good fortune.’
    After New Year Covington was back once more. They had their anniversary of meeting to celebrate with their eyes stinging in the month of smoke and cinders. Covington’s visits became even more frequent, as curious to MacCracken as they were profitable. MacCracken brushed up his beetles and moths to compete with him, but had no chance of besting him—yet gained pleasure from thecontest all the same. ‘We have a good laugh and rub along,’ he told his friends. Covington was an acute observer in entomology, just as in commerce and trade. MacCracken came away from their comparisons of beetles and wasps with a firm assessment of Covington’s brainpower. When it came to birds he was incomparable, not just noting variations in plumage and beak-shape, but expounding anatomy as well. He knew the skull and breast-bones of skeletons by sight. MacCracken felt that whatever Covington turned himself to he was able to master, but at the same time felt a limitation, in that Covington was unwilling or unable to speculate from the foundation of the natural world into other realms of thinking.
    â€˜What is man?’ was the old repeated question. ‘What is life?’ ‘Where are these creatures from?’ were others.
    MacCracken wondered at the top of his voice, ‘And what is their relation to the Great Flood of the Bible?’
    â€˜To the what ?’ The idea seemed to put Covington in a rage of stony deafness and