We made directly for the bowling-place. The scrivener strutted over to the men with all the airs of a great baron with an army at his back. He clapped his hands when a good stroke was made. He let out a loud “ah” when the stone rolled out of its track and missed the pins. He capered from one end of the alley to the other, following the stone and talking to it encouragingly as though it had life. He clapped the players on the back. In short he did all in his power to make a show of himself. From where I stood it struck me that he was acting like a fool. But at that time I did not know the man. I realized that he could masquerade in a dozen different rôles, but I little imagined that he was able to alter the character of his disposition. Finally the play came to an end. The winner—a tall gaunt man whose name was Nicole—straightened himself and puffed out his chest. The scrivener was on him in an instant. He shook him by the hand. He beamed in his face. “A master!” he cried. “You can play almost as well as I can play myself.” Nicole’s smile faded. He looked down at the scrivener and frowned. “For ten years,” he said, “I’ve beaten every man who has set his foot upon this green.” The scrivener struck him a hard blow upon the chest. Then he laughed a high mocking laugh. “A fine boast!” he cried and snapped his fingers under Nicole’s nose. “Well, the tenth year will be your last.” The fire gathered in the man’s eye. The blow was humiliating enough but the words cut him like a sharp knife. He swallowed hard and flung one hand out. “Will you play with me?” he demanded. “——for money?” asked the scrivener. “For the clothes on your back, if you will,” was the reply. At that the scrivener leaped into the air. He placed his hand on the ground and turned a circle as neatly as he had done on the day I met him at the forge. Then he stuck his hand in his shirt and looked as important as a prince. “Boy!” he called to me as though I were his servant. “Come here and count me ten crowns from my purse.” He turned to Nicole. “This lad of mine carries my wealth. If we are beset by thieves, no one would look to him for the money. Is not that a wise trick?” He laughed loud again as though he might be proud of his cunning. I hesitated. I tried to make an estimate of what was going on in his mind. I was wavering in uncertainty, when he snapped me a wink from the corner of his eye. “Not so slow!” he commanded. Then when I counted the money, he threw it contemptuously on the grass. “Ten crowns, Nicole,” he said. “That will be one for every year you have been the master of bowls.” Nicole drew forth a well-worn leather purse such as merchants carry. With a sly smile he looked sideways at the scrivener and slowly counted out the money. This he threw piece by piece on the grass. It was as though he was trying to shake the scrivener’s nerves with his deliberation.