They take out of their game-bags a nice piece of boeuf-en-daube, some raw onions, a sausage and some anchovies and they begin a very long luncheon, washed down by one of these jolly Rhone wines, which encourage singing and laughter.
When all have had enough, they whistle for the dogs, load their guns and commence the shoot.

That is to say each of these gentlemen takes off his hat, sends it spinning through the air with all his strength and takes a pot-shot at it.

The one who hits his hat most frequently is proclaimed king of the hunt and returns to Tarascon that evening in triumph, his perforated hat hanging from the end of his gun and to the accompaniment of much barking and blowing of trumpets.
One need hardly tell you that there is a brisk trade in hats in the town, and there are even hatters who sell hats already full of holes and tears for use by the less skillful, but scarcely anyone is known to buy them except Bezuquet the chemist.
As a hat shooter Tartarin had no equal.

Every Sunday morning he left with a new hat.

Every evening he returned with a rag.