A cowardly lot, thought Tartarin, as he came alongside them... hunting lions in a group and with dogs... for it had never occurred to him that In Algeria one could hunt anything but lions. However these hunters looked like comfortably retired businessmen, and Tartarin, curious about this way of hunting lions with dogs and game-bags, took it on himself to address one of them.
“Et autrement, my friend, a good day?”
“Not bad” Replied the other, looking with some surprise at the heavy armament of our Tarascon warrior.
“You have killed some of them?”
“Yes... a few... as you can see.” And the Algerian pointed to his game-bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock.
“How is that?... you put them in your game-bag?”
“Where would you like me to put them?”
“But then they... they must be very small!”
“Some big, some small.” Said the hunter, and as he was in a hurry to catch up with his companions and go home, he made off at high speed. Tartarin stood, stupefied, in the middle of the road. Then after a moment of thought “Bah!” He said to himself, “These people are trying to have me on, they haven’t shot anything.” And he continued on his way.
Already the houses were becoming more scattered, the passers-by less frequent. Night was falling. Objects becoming less distinct.... He marched on for another half an hour, and then he stopped. It was now completely dark, a moonless night spangled with stars. There was no one on the road, but in spite of that Tartarin reckoned that lions were not like coaches and would not stick to the highway. He set off across country. At every step there were ditches, thorns and bushes. No matter, he walked on until at last he reached a spot he thought suited to his purpose. A likely place for lions.