Towards the end it was nip and tuck. Now Nicole was ahead, now the scrivener. The longer the game lasted, the more boastful my companion became. He took to strutting about between shots like a cock-o’-the-walk. He wanted to double the money he had laid on himself. He shouted aloud that he was the master of the best man in the Kingdom of France. He said he could prove it with a wager that would be the ransom for a prince. Then at last just when Nicole was measuring the green with his eye he let out a whoop, turned one of his somersaults, put his knuckles in his mouth and whistled so shrilly that it rent the very air. The stone that Nicole held in his hand shot forward. But the scrivener had done his work. It flew in full career down the middle of the green. Then it seemed to strike a tuft of hidden grass for it bounced a little in the air and veered over towards the side. It struck the pins however, but only slightly. Three of the nine were tumbled over and the rest left standing. The scrivener raised the stone. He walked to the green with his head high. He made the cast without so much as an aim, but I saw that he put all his force behind it. It sped on in a straight line. It crashed in among the pins with the straightness and speed of an arrow. It hit the middle one and sent it leaping over to the side. The stone continued on its course in among the others. They fell one by one in quick succession until the last spun around and rolled in a semi-circle out over the green. At that the scrivener snapped his fingers and gave a cry. He turned to Nicole. “You have seven still to make,” he said. “I have only two to win. Will you——” Nicole had had enough. With a frown of disappointment he waved his hand towards the green and then towards the money. “It is yours,” he said. “I never played so poorly in my life.” He was soured to the core. But with all that I picked up the coins and put them in my purse. We went into the inn and sat down at a long oaken table. Soon we had the meat before us and were eating to our hearts’ content. It was well on towards dark when we finished. One by one the country gossips entered and took their places. The landlord lit the oil lanthorn that hung from the ceiling. Its yellow rays cast flitting shadows about the room. The air was heavy from the odor of the cooking and the dampness of the clay floor. The scrivener eyed every stranger in the place as keenly as though he were cutting him open with a knife. He began to yawn. He bade me fling a coin on the table to pay the score and make ready for bed.