The gobbler sprang to life. Did he run? Not he! A turkey cock is a fighting cock. He whetted his spurs. His crest rose in menace. His wattles blazed scarlet. He flew at Doby in a fury.
Taken by surprise, the boy covered his face with his hand and began blindly to lunge and to fend with his knife every time the gobbler struck at him. The bird jumped at the boy. The boy stabbed at the bird. The battle grew. The gobbler would not run. Doby could not.
He never knew how long he fought. But he did fight and fight hard. The gobbler fought and fought harder. Doby was knocked down.
After a while, a long while, he opened his eyes and sat up. He feebly gazed around him. He stared at his foe. They had fought to a finish. The boy was almost finished. The gobbler lying beside him was quite finished.
Hours and hours later, Ol' Pap Soisson, keeping an excited lookout, went running to meet Doby. The boy's feet were a mass of blisters. His clothes were a tattered ruin from the spurs of the vanquished. His arms were numb with lugging the fifteen-pound turkey over those four long miles. His hands were swollen. His head was tied up.
The astonishment and delight of the little Frenchman pleased Doby. His compliments, so spattered with exclamation points, were praises most agreeable to the hunter.
What are a few scratches and bumps? What are bruises and cuts? Taken in a good cause, they are nothing. Simply nothing!
Any boy would have agreed with Doby when he said, sincerely, as he at last sat down to watch the first fire crackle in the new oven, "A fellow feels all good and rested when he can quit work and take a little time off for some lively sport which will fill the larder and feed the hungry."