"It doesn't scare me one little bit, old boy.
The pretty devil lady's got the wrong slant.

When you've had a pal standing beside you one moment--full of life, and joy, and power, and potentialities, telling what he's going to do to make the world hum when he gets through the slaughter, just running over with zip and pep of life, Doc--and the next instant, right in the middle of a laugh--a piece of damned shell takes off half his head and with it joy and power and all the rest of it"-- his face twitched--"well, old man, in the face of _that_ mystery a disappearing act such as the devil lady treated us to doesn't make much of a dent.

Not on me.

But by the brogans of Brian Boru--if we could have had some of that stuff to turn on during the war--oh, boy!" He was silent, evidently contemplating the idea with vast pleasure.
And as for me, at that moment my last doubt of Larry O'Keefe vanished, I saw that he did believe, really believed, in his banshees, his leprechauns and all the old dreams of the Gael--but only within the limits of Ireland.
In one drawer of his mind was packed all his superstition, his mysticism, and what of weakness it might carry.

But face him with any peril or problem and the drawer closed instantaneously leaving a mind that was utterly fearless, incredulous, and ingenious; swept clean of all cobwebs by as fine a skeptic broom as ever brushed a brain.
"Some stuff!" Deepest admiration was in his voice.