“I could make Farmer Green run,” he remarked, “if only he would fight fairly. But he won’t. He fights with a stick.”
“Sho!” Mistah Mule exclaimed. “Do he?” And then Mistah Mule hung his head in thought. Soon he raised it again, however. And to Turkey Proudfoot he began to say something in a low voice. Whatever it was, Turkey Proudfoot did not seem to think well of it. He kept gobbling protests and crying, “No! No! No!”
But in the end Mistah Mule won him over. For Turkey Proudfoot agreed to do what Mistah Mule suggested.
“Good!” Mistah Mule brayed. “Do just as I tells you and you’ll make him run sure.”
Then Turkey Proudfoot gave a run and a leap and a flap of his wings, all of which carried him to the top of the fence and thence into the farmyard. He began to strut back and forth between the house and the barns, keeping a sharp eye upon the woodshed door.
In a little while Farmer Green appeared in the doorway, carrying a pail, and started to walk to the pigpens.
Turkey Proudfoot gave a loud gobble and rushed at him. There was no stick anywhere in sight which Farmer Green could snatch up. Turkey Proudfoot had made sure of that.
“Go ’way, you old gobbler!” Farmer Green shouted.
But Turkey Proudfoot came on and on.
Farmer Green was carrying something in his pail. It was sour milk for the pigs. And when Turkey Proudfoot was almost upon him, Farmer Green showered the sour milk all over him.