“Hah, this is a good place for a trap, Joe,” he said. “We’ll build one or two anyway. Then we’ll get back.”
He stood his rifle up against a tree and unbuckled his belt. Then he stopped and gazed at the dog blankly.
“Well, now, if we didn’t forget the ax,” he exclaimed. “Can’t build a turkey-trap without an ax, pup.”
“Here, I’ll lend you mine, Boy.”
Bill Paisley, a gun on his shoulder and a wild gobbler hanging from one hand, threw his ax down on the moss and grunted:
“Hickory, but I’m some tired. Had quite a job of it, I can tell you. Built four traps myself this mornin’. Better get yours all up to-day, Boy, ’cause the turkeys are takin’ to the hardwood fast. Seen eight big flock this mornin’. Only got one crack, though, ’cause I wanted to get my traps up. Why, what’s the matter, Boy, you look sort of used up?”
Boy looked away.
“You know the mornin’ after the bee, Bill, how when we got back home we found that ma had been took bad; and you know what we’ve been kind of expectin’ since?” he said catchingly. “Well, we think it’ll happen right soon.”
Paisley dropped his gun and tackled a dead tree with the ax.
“I made my logs about ten foot long,” he said; “reckon you’d best make yours same length.”