So Turkey Proudfoot told him. He told him in such a low tone that nobody else could hear.
XXIV
BROTHER TOM
It was almost dark in the cornfield on a crisp evening late in November. It was not Farmer Green's field, but that of a neighbor of his. And it was far from any house.
The pumpkins had been gathered weeks before. The cornstalks had long since been cut and now stood in shocks amidst the stubble.
On the whole, the scene was bleak and dismal. Not a creature moved anywhere. Even the meadow, mice had already found the nights too chilly for their liking. Turkey Proudfoot was there alone, standing[p. 116] like a statue, as if he were waiting for somebody.
"I don't see where he can be," Turkey Proudfoot muttered. "I've spent three days and three nights here already. And he has never been late before in all the years that I've been coming here for my vacation."
At last Turkey Proudfoot bestirred himself. With a hop, skip and a jump he landed on top of the rail fence that surrounded the field and settled himself for the night.