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.