If you have enough knowledge of human nature to understand the fine
game of baseball, and have at any time scraped acquaintance with the
interesting mathematical doctrine of progressive permutations, you will
see, when four men equal to a thousand are under the eyes of each other,
and of the garrison in the fort, that the whole arsenal of logarithms
would give out before you could compute the permutative possibilities
of the courage that would be refracted, reflected, compounded and
concentrated by all there, each giving courage to and receiving courage
from each and all the others. It makes my head ache to think of it. I
feel as if I could be brave myself.

Certainly they were that day. To the bitter end of finishing the meal;
and they confessed the added courage by gamboling like boys amid awful
thunders of the arquebuses, which made a rumble in their time like their
successors, the omnibuses, still make to this day on the granite streets
of cities populated by deaf folks.

There never was more of a gay, lilting, impudent courage than those four
mousquetaires displayed with such splendid coolness and spirit.

But compare it with the fight which Bussy made, single-handed, against
the assassins hired by Monsereau and authorized by that effeminate
fop, the Due D'Anjou. Of course you remember it. Let me pay you the
affectionate compliment of presuming that you have read "La Dame de
Monsereau," often translated under the English title, "Chicot, the
Jester," that almost incomparable novel of historical romance, by M.
Dumas. If, through some accident or even through lack of culture, you
have failed to do so, pray do not admit it. Conceal your blemish and
remedy the matter at once. At least, seem to deserve respect and
confidence, and appear to be a worthy novel-reader if actually you are