nts; in
vain did he pile up a collection of weapons; in vain did he pore over
tales of daring-do trying to escape by the power of his imagination from
the pitiless grip of reality. Alas all that he did to satisfy his lust
for adventure seemed only to increase it. The sight of his weapons kept
him in a perpetual state of furious agitation. His rifles, his arrows
and his spears rang out war-cries. In the branches of the baobab the
wind whispered enticingly of great voyages.

How often on these heavy summer afternoons, when he was alone, reading
amongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet and throwing down
his book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite forgetting that
he was in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a spear,
"Let them all come"!!... Them?... What them? Tartarin did not quite know
himself, "Them" was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed.
"Them" was the Indian brave dancing round the stake to which his
wretched prisoner was tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling and
swaying, licking bloodstained lips. The Toureg of the desert, the Malay
pirate, the Corsican bandit. In a word it was "Them!"

Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin to challenge them... they
never appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that they would come
to Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, particularly in the
evenings when he went to the club.

Chapter 4.

The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the Saracen. The
Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The Comanchee brave taking
to the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de Tarascon arming
himself to go to the club at nine o'clock on a dark evening, an hour
after the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as the
sailors say.

On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carried
a sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right a
revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, in
the privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a pass
at the wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his
muscles and then taking his identity papers he crossed the
garden... steadily... unhurriedly... a l'Anglais. That is the mark of true
courage.

At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate. He opened it
brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If "They" had
been behind it, it would