Wish I could remember it."
Jed looked up from the lathe.
"'He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win or lose it all.'
That's somethin' like it, ain't it, Charlie?" he asked.
Phillips was amazed. "Well, I declare, Winslow," he exclaimed,
"you beat me! I can't place you at all. Whoever would have
accused you of reading poetry--and quoting it."
Jed rubbed his chin. "I don't know much, of course," he said, "but
there's consider'ble many poetry books up to the library and I like
to read 'em sometimes. You're liable to run across a--er--poem--
well, like this one, for instance--that kind of gets hold of you.
It fills the bill, you might say, as nothin' else does. There's
another one that's better still. About--
'Once to every man and nation
Comes the moment to decide.
Do you know that one?"
His visitor did not answer. After a moment he swung himself from
the workbench and turned toward the door.
"'He either fears his fate too much,'" he quoted, gloomily.
"Humph! I wonder if it ever occurred to that chap that there might
be certain kinds of fate that COULDN'T be feared too much? . . .
Well, so long, Jed. Ah hum, you don't know where I can get hold of
some money, do you?"
Jed was surprised.
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