uncheon, washed down by one of these jolly Rhone
wines, which encourage singing and laughter.

When all have had enough, they whistle for the dogs, load their guns and
commence the shoot. That is to say each of these gentlemen takes off his
hat, sends it spinning through the air with all his strength and takes
a pot-shot at it. The one who hits his hat most frequently is proclaimed
king of the hunt and returns to Tarascon that evening in triumph, his
perforated hat hanging from the end of his gun and to the accompaniment
of much barking and blowing of trumpets.

One need hardly tell you that there is a brisk trade in hats in the
town, and there are even hatters who sell hats already full of holes and
tears for use by the less skillful, but scarcely anyone is known to buy
them except Bezuquet the chemist.

As a hat shooter Tartarin had no equal. Every Sunday morning he left
with a new hat. Every evening he returned with a rag. In the little
house of the baobab, the attic was full of these glorious trophies.
All of Tarascon recognised him as their master in this respect. The
gentlemen elected him as their chief justice in matters relating to
the chase and arbitrator in any dispute, so that every day, between the
hours of three and four in the afternoon, at Costecalde the gunsmith's
one could see the plump figure of a man, seated gravely on a green
leather arm-chair, in the middle of the shop, which was full of hat
hunters standing about and arguing. It was Tartarin delivering justice.
Nimrod doubling as Soloman.

Chapter 2.

In addition to their passion for hunting the good people of Tarascon
had another passion, which was for drawing-room ballads. The number of
ballads which were sung in this part of the world passed all belief. All
the old sentimental songs, yellowing in ancient cardboard boxes, could
be found in Tarascon alive and flourishing. Each family had its own
ballad and in the town this was well understood. One knew, for example,
that for Bezuquet the chemist it was:-"Thou pale star whom I adore."

For the gunsmith Costecalde:-"Come with me to the forest glade."

For the Town Clark:--"If I was invisible, no one would see me." (a comic
song) Two or three times a week people would gather in one house or
another and sing, and the remarkable thing is that the songs were always
the same. No matter for how long they had been singing them, the people
of Tarascon had no desire to change them. They were han