it were in a public museum. "Poisoned Arrows. Please do not touch!" was
the warning on one of the cards. "Weapons loaded. Have a care!" greeted
you from another. My word, it required some pluck to move about in the
den of the great Tartarin.

There were books of travel and adventure, books about mighty hunting on
the table in the centre of the room; and seated at the table was a short
and rather fat, red-haired fellow of about forty-five, with a closely-
trimmed beard and a pair of bright eyes. He was in his shirtsleeves,
reading a book held in one hand while he gesticulated wildly with a
large pipe in the other--Tartarin! He was evidently imagining himself
the daring hero of the story.

Now you must know that the people of Tarascon were tremendously keen on
hunting, and Tartarin was the chief of the hunters. You may think this
funny when you know there was not a living thing to shoot at within
miles of Tarascon; scarcely a sparrow to attract local sportsmen. Ah,
but you don't know how ingenious they are down there.

Every Sunday morning off the huntsmen sallied with their guns and
ammunition, the hounds yelping at their heels. Each man as he left in
the morning took with him a brand new cap, and when they got well into
the country and were ready for sport, they took their caps off, threw
then high in the air, and shot at them as they fell. In the evening you
would see them returning with their riddled caps stuck on the points of
their guns, and of all these brave men Tartarin was the most admired, as
he always swung into town with the most hopeless rag of a cap at the end
of a day's sport. There's no mistake, he was a wonder!

But for all his adventurous spirit, he had a certain amount of caution.