"I say when you have a decision to make and your mind is about fifty-fifty on the subject, how do you decide?"
Jed's answer was absently given. "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."