The whole point about a hunter like Captain Biggar, if you face it squarely, is that he hunts. And, this being so, you expect him to stay put in and around his chosen hunting grounds. Met him in Kenya or Malaya or Borneo or India, and you feel no surprise. "Hullo there, Captain Biggar," you say. "How's the spooring?" And he replies that the spooring is tophole. Everything perfectly in order.
But when you see him in the coffee room of an English country inn, thousands of miles from his natural habitat, you may be excused for harbouring a momentary suspicion that this is not the man in the flesh but rather his wraith or phantasm looking in, as wraiths and phantasms will, to pass the time of day.
"Eek!" Mrs. Spottsworth exclaimed, visibly shaken. Since interesting herself in psychical research, she had often wished to see a ghost, but one likes to pick one's time and place for that sort of thing. One does not want spectres muscling in when one is enjoying a refreshing gin and tonic
(from Ring For Jeeves, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)
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