Howland was one of the few men who possess unbounded confidence in themselves, who place a certain pride in their physical as well as their mental capabilities, and he was confident now.

His successful and indomitable fight over obstacles in a big city had made this confidence a genuine part of his being.

It was a confidence that flushed his face with joyous enthusiasm as he ran after the dogs, and that astonished and puzzled Jean Croisset.
"_Mon Dieu_, but you are a strange man!" exclaimed the Frenchman when he brought the dogs down to a walk after a half mile run.

"Blessed saints, M'seur, you are laughing--and I swear it is no laughing matter." "Shouldn't a man be happy when he is going to his wedding, Jean ?" puffed Howland, gasping to get back the breath he had lost.
"But not when he's going to his funeral, M'seur." "If I were one of your blessed saints I'd hit you over the head with a thunderbolt, Croisset.

Good Lord, what sort of a heart have you got inside of your jacket, man?
Up there where we're going is the sweetest little girl in the whole world.