"Who is there?"
"The wheelwright of Coq," said the great golfer.
"Don't open the door," cried Belzébuth; "that rascal wins at every turn; he is capable of depopulating my empire."
Roger laughed in his sleeve.
"Oh! you are not saved," said Death. "I am going to take you where you won't be cold either."
Quicker than a beggar would have emptied a poor's box they were in purgatory.
"Toc—toc!"
"Who is there?"
"The wheelwright of Coq," said the great golfer.
"But he is in a state of mortal sin," cried the angel on duty. "Take him away from here—he can't come in."
"I cannot, all the same, let him linger between heaven and earth," said Death; "I shall shunt him back to Coq."
"Where they will take me for a ghost. Thank you! is there not still paradise?"
XIV
They were there at the end of a short hour.
"Toc, toc!"
"Who is there?"
"The wheelwright of Coq," said the great golfer.
"Ah! my lad," said St. Peter, half opening the door, "I am really grieved. St. Antony told you long ago you had better ask for the salvation of your soul."
"That is true, St. Peter," replied Roger with a sheep-
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