The matter-of-fact way
in which his companion accepted the estimate of his insignificance
was humiliating. Jed did not blame him, it was true, of course,
but the truth hurt--a little. He was ashamed of himself for
feeling the hurt.
"Oh," he drawled, "I do have some things--little no-account things--
to decide every once in a while. Sometimes they bother me, too--
although they probably wouldn't anybody with a head instead of a
Hubbard squash on his shoulders. The only way I can decide 'em is
to set down and open court, put 'em on trial, as you might say."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I call in witnesses for both sides, seems so. Here's the
reasons why I ought to tell; here's the reasons why I shouldn't.
I--"
"Tell? Ought to TELL? What makes you say that? What have YOU got
to tell?"
He was glaring at the windmill maker with frightened eyes. Jed
knew as well as if it had been painted on the shop wall before him
the question in the boy's mind, the momentous decision he was
trying to make. And he pitied him from the bottom of his heart.
"Tell?" he repeated. "Did I say tell? Well, if I did 'twas just
a--er--figger of speech, as the book fellers talk about. But the
only way to decide a thing, as it seems to me, is to try and figger
out what's the RIGHT of it, and then do that."
Phillips looked gloomily at the floor.
Pages:
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314