people to whom he would send lion-skins.

Oh, that I had the brush of an artist, that I might paint you some
pictures of Tartarin during his three days aboard the Zouave on the
voyage from Marseilles! But I have no facility with the brush, and mere
words cannot convey how he passed from the proudly heroic to the
hopelessly miserable in the course of the journey. Worst of all, while
he was groaning in his stuffy bunk, he knew that a very merry party of
passengers were enjoying themselves in the saloon. He was still in his
bunk when the ship came to her moorings at Algiers, and he got up with a
sudden jerk, under the impression that the Zouave was sinking. Seizing
his many weapons, he rushed on deck, to find it was not foundering, but
only arriving.

Soon after Tartarin had set foot on shore, following a great negro
porter, he was almost stupefied by the babel of tongues; but,
fortunately, a policeman took him in hand and had him directed, together
with his enormous collection of luggage, to the European hotel.

On arriving at his hotel, he was so fatigued that his marvellous
collection of weapons had to be taken from him, and he had to be carried
to bed, where he snored very soundly until it was striking three
o'clock. He had slept all the evening, through the night and morning,
and well into the next afternoon!

He awakened refreshed, and the first thought in his mind was, "I'm in
lion-land at last!" But the thought sent a cold shiver through him, and
he dived under the bedclothes. A moment later he determined to be up.
Exclaiming, "Now for the lions!" he jumped on the floor and began his
preparations.