“I am.”
He took his club, put a score of balls in his pocket, threw his sack over his shoulder, and buckled his gaiters without taking off his apron.
“What do you want your club for?”
“Why, to golf in paradise with my patron St. Antony.”
“Do you fancy, then, that I am going to conduct you to paradise?”
“You must, as I have half-a-dozen souls to carry there, that I once saved from the clutches of Belzébuth.”
“Better have saved your own. En route, cher Dumollet!”
The great golfer saw that the old reaper bore him a grudge, and that he was going to conduct him to the paradise of the lost.[25]
Indeed a quarter of an hour later the two travellers knocked at the gate of hell.
“Toc, toc!”