With a little stick, or maybe his flute under his arm, he'll smile and string these heathen along, when you'd think they weren't waiting for anybody.

A spear took off his fez yesterday.

He never blinked--he's a jim-dandy at keeping cool; and when a hundred mounted heathens made a rush down on him the other day, spears sticking out like quills on a porcupine--2.5 on the shell-road the chargers were going--did he stir?
Say, he watched 'em as if they were playing for his benefit.

And sure enough, he was right.

They parted either side of him when they were ten feet away, and there he was quite safe, a blessing in the storm, a little rock island in the rapids--but I couldn't remember a proper hymn of praise to say.
There's no getting away from the fact that he's got a will or something, a sort of force different from most of us, or perhaps any of us.