“I never knowed it,” Mistah Mule declared.
“Do you mean to say you haven’t heard my gobble?” Turkey Proudfoot asked in a loud voice. “Why, I’ve gobbled a hundred times if I have once.”
“I ain’t heard you,” said Mistah Mule with a grin.
Now, Turkey Proudfoot liked all the neighbors to notice him. He wanted all the farmyard folk to admire his walk, his fine feathers, his hideous voice. And when Mistah Mule told him that he hadn’t even known he was anywhere around, Turkey Proudfoot grew angrier than ever. If Mistah Mule had been a person of his own size, Turkey Proudfoot would certainly have rushed at him, and fought him. But Mistah Mule could have kicked him over the fence without half trying. And Turkey Proudfoot knew it. There was nothing he could do except bluster. And he could always do that without half trying.
“You’ve been on this farm quite a while now,” he gobbled loudly. “You ought to know by this time that I’m a person of importance. When I go out for a stroll, all the farmyard folk turn their heads and stare at me.”
“Does they?” said Mistah Mule pleasantly. “What for does they do that?”
“My goodness!” Turkey Proudfoot exclaimed. “What a dull fellow you are! Haven’t you any eyes? Haven’t you any ears?”
Mistah Mule had both eyes and ears—especially ears. But he claimed not to know what Turkey Proudfoot meant.
“Haven’t you learned yet that I’m the ruler of the farmyard?” Turkey Proudfoot asked him scornfully.
And at that, Mistah Mule gave voice to his queer hee-haw once more.