"W-e-e-ll," he drawled, "I
generally--er--don't."
"But suppose the time comes when you have to, what then?"
"Eh? . . . Oh, then, if 'tain't very important I usually leave it
to Isaiah."
"Isaiah? Isaiah who?"
"I don't know his last name, but he's got a whole lot of first
ones. That's him, up on that shelf."
He pointed to a much battered wooden figure attached to the edge of
the shelf upon the wall. The figure was that of a little man
holding a set of mill arms in front of him. The said mill arms
were painted a robin's-egg blue, and one was tipped with black.
"That's Isaiah," continued Jed. "Hum . . . yes . . . that's him.
He was the first one of his kind of contraption that I ever made
and, bein' as he seemed to bring me luck, I've kept him. He's
settled a good many questions for me, Isaiah has."
"Why do you call him Isaiah?"
"Eh? Oh, that's just his to-day's name. I called him Isaiah just
now 'cause that was the first of the prophet names I could think
of. Next time he's just as liable to be Hosea or Ezekiel or Samuel
or Jeremiah. He prophesies just as well under any one of 'em,
don't seem to be particular."
Charles smiled slightly--he did not appear to be in a laughing
mood--and then asked: "You say he settles questions for you? How?"
"How? . . . Oh. . . Well, you notice one end of that whirligig
arm he's got is smudged with black?"
"Yes.
Pages:
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311