He stood hesitating.

"Will the master like it?"

"Yes," said Diplomacy, "he will be delighted."

"No matter whether he likes it or not," codiciled Conscience. "You do
it."

"I--don't exactly like--to--take the responsibility," wavered this
modern Faint-Heart.

"I don't want you to take the responsibility," I ejaculated, with
volcanic vehemence. "I'll take the responsibility. You take the hoe."

These duty-people do infuriate me. They are so afraid to do anything
that isn't laid out in a right-angled triangle. Every path must be
graded and turfed before they dare set their scrupulous feet in it.
I like conscience, but, like corn and potatoes, carried too far, it
becomes a vice. I think I could commit a murder with less hesitation
than some people buy a ninepenny calico. And to see that man stand
there, balancing probabilities over a piece of ground no bigger than a
bed-quilt, as if a nation's fate were at stake, was enough to ruffle a
calmer temper than mine. My impetuosity impressed him, however, and he
began to lay about him vigorously with hoe and rake and lines, and, in
an incredibly short space of time, had a bit of square flatness laid out
with wonderful precision. Meanwhile I had ransacked my vegetable-bag,
and though lettuce and asparagus were not there, plenty of beets and
parsnips and squashes, etc., were. I let him take his choice. He took