Phillips looked gloomily at the floor.  “And that’s such an easy job,” he observed, with sarcasm.

“The figgerin’ or the doin’?”

“Oh, the doing; the figuring is usually easy enough—­too easy.  But the doing is different.  The average fellow is afraid.  I don’t suppose you would be, Jed.  I can imagine you doing almost anything if you thought it was right, and hang the consequences.”

Jed looked aghast.  “Who?  Me?” he queried.  “Good land of love, don’t talk that way, Charlie!  I’m the scarest critter that lives and the weakest-kneed, too, ’most generally.  But—­but, all the same, I do believe the best thing, and the easiest in the end, not only for you—­or me—­but for all hands, is to take the bull by the horns and heave the critter, if you can.  There may be an awful big trouble, but big or little it’ll be over and done with.  That bull won’t be hangin’ around all your life and sneakin’ up astern to get you—­and those you—­er—­care for. . . .  Mercy me, how I do preach!  They’ll be callin’ me to the Baptist pulpit, if I don’t look out.  I understand they’re candidatin’.”

His friend drew a long breath.  “There is a poem that I used to read, or hear some one read,” he observed, “that fills the bill for any one with your point of view, I should say.  Something about a fellow’s not being afraid to put all his money on one horse, or the last card—­about his not deserving anything if he isn’t afraid to risk everything.  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.  “Humph!” he grunted.  “I should say you had hold of money two-thirds of every day.  Feller that works in a bank is supposed to handle some cash.”