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Updated: May 20, 2025
“What shall the stake be?” he asked resolutely. “Your soul?” “Against what?” “Whatever you please.” The wheelwright reflected. “What have you there in your sack?” “My spoils of the week.” “Is the soul of Paternostre among them?” “To be sure! and those of five other golfers; dead, like him, without confession.” “I play you my soul against that of Paternostre.” “Done!”
Well, it happened one day that the strongest player of Mons, who was called Paternostre, was found dead on the edge of a bunker. His head was broken, and near him was his niblick, red with blood.
At the second stroke the ball went as if of itself and hit the door of the cemetery. “By the horns of my grandfather!” cried Belzébuth, “it shall not be said that I have been beaten by a son of that fool Adam. Give me my revenge.” “What shall we play for?” “Your soul and that of Paternostre against the souls of two golfers.”
Mynheer van Belzébuth is, as every one knows, the greatest gamester that there is upon or under the earth, but the game he particularly affects is golf. When he goes his round in Flanders one always meets him, club in hand, like a true Fleming. The wheelwright of Coq was very fond of Paternostre, who, next to himself, was the best golfer in the country.
They could not tell who had done this business, and as Paternostre often said that at golf he feared neither man nor devil, it occurred to them that he had challenged Mynheer van Belzébuth, and that as a punishment for this he had knocked him on the head.
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