A man is never so brave as whin sittin’ ferninst his own comfortable fire, a hot supper asleep in his chist, a steamin’ noggin of flaygrant punch in his fist, an’ a well-thried pipe betwixt his teeth. At such times he rumynates on the ould ancient hayroes, an’ he daycides they were no great shakes, afther all. They had the chanst to show themselves, an’ that’s the only difference betwixet himself an’ themselves. But whin he’s flung sudden out of thim pleasant surcumstances, as Darby was, to go chargin’ around in the darkness, hunting unknown an’ unwisible dangers, much of that courage oozes out of him.
An’ so the sthrangest of all sthrange things was, that this night, whin ’twas his fortune to be taken up be the Costa Bower, that a dhread of that death-coach was present in his mind from the minute he shut the door on himself, an’ it outweighed all other fears.
In spite of the insurance that King Brian had given, in spite of the knowledge that his friends, the Good People, were flyin’ hither an’ thither over that
