fry of Conde, and will
infallibly win me my match."

"So be it," said St. Peter.

"You would have done better," said St. Antony, "to have asked for your
eternal salvation."

"Bah!" replied the other. "I have plenty of time to think of that; I
am not yet greasing my boots for the long journey."

The two saints went out and Roger followed them, curious to be present
at such a rare game; but suddenly, near the Chapel of St. Antony, they
disappeared.

The wheelwright then went to see the mummers tumbling in the high
street of Conde.

When he returned, towards midnight, he found at the corner of his door
the desired club. To his great surprise it was only a bad little iron
head attached to a wretched worn-out shaft. Nevertheless he took the
gift of St. Peter and put it carefully away.

V

Next morning the Condeens scattered in crowds over the country, to
play golf, eat red herrings, and drink beer, so as to scatter the
fumes of wine from their heads and to revive after the fatigues of the
Carnival. The wheelwright of Coq came too, with his miserable club,
and made such fine strokes that all the players left their games to
see him play. The following Sunday he proved still more expert; little
by little his fame spread through the land. From ten leagues round the
most skilful players hastened to come and be beaten, and it was then
that he was named the Great Golfer.

He passed the whole Sunday in golfing, and in the evening he rested
himself by playing a game of matrimony at the "Fighting Cock." He
spread his apron under the feet of the players, and the devil himself
could not have put them out of the tavern, much less the rural
policeman. On Monday morning he stopped the pilgrims who were going to
worship at Notre Dame de Bon Secours; he induced them to rest
themselves upon his _causeuse_, and did not let them go before he had
confessed them well.

In short, he led the most agreeable life that a good Fleming can
imagine, and only regretted one thing--namely, that he had not wished
it might last for ever.

VI

Well, it happened one day that the strongest player of Mons, who was
called Paternostre, was found dead on the edge of a bunker. His head
was broken, and near him was his niblick, red with blood.

They could not tell who had done this business, and as Paternostre
often said that at golf he feared neither man nor devil, it occurred
to them that he had challenged Mynheer van Belzebuth, and that as a