In a moment he was back again carrying a peck-measure in his hand (it looked scant even for a peck); filling which, he handed it to Kris, who, mute with surprise, silently emptied it into the cart.
From this farm Kris drove on to the one beyond. He passed by the farmer’s house—a comfortable stone dwelling—and turned into the barnyard. As he did so he noticed how fat the cattle and the pigs looked. The farmer came out to him, and Kris made his appeal.
“Well,” said the man, “I s’pose I’ll have to help too; and even if I didn’t want to, my conscience would make me. But I should think such a stout-lookin’, able-bodied woman ought to be able to help herself.”
By this time they reached the corn-crib, which Kris noticed was full up to the very top; and the farmer, gathering up a dozen ears in his hands, pitched them into the cart, exclaiming:
“Whew! what a heap you’ve got there! Mind, Kris, don’t you come for any more.”
Kris drove out of the gate and turned his horse’s head toward home.
“The cart’s too big, after all,” he said. “It’s of no use to go any farther; the next one would want to take away some of what I’ve got. It’s wonderful what a crop of consciences grows in these parts! But I’ve a notion that a good deal of it’s only ‘cheat’ after all, and we might as well call it by the right name.”
Men who can be satisfied without any conscience are very uncomfortable without a base imitation of one to stand in its place.