“Shall we go on?” said the wheelwright of Coq.
“No,” replied the other; “they expect me at the Witches’ Sabbath on the hill of Copiémont.
“That brigand,” said he aside, “is capable of filching all my game.”
And he vanished.
Returned home, the great golfer shut up his souls in a sack and went to bed, enchanted to have beaten Mynheer van Belzébuth.
X
Two years after the wheelwright of Coq received a visit which he little expected. An old man, tall, thin and yellow, came into the workshop carrying a scythe on his shoulder.
“Are you bringing me your scythe to haft anew, master?”
“No, faith, my scythe is never unhafted.”
“Then how can I serve you?”