With hands and feet my father struggled, but could not do much, for I lay against him under a great heap. His struggles made an opening sideways however.
“Father! father! shout,” I cried. “I see a light somewhere; and I think it is moving.”
We shouted as loud as we could, and then lay listening. My heart beat so that I was afraid I should not hear any reply that might come. But the next moment it rang through the frosty air.
“It’s Turkey! That’s Turkey, father!” I cried. “I know his shout. He makes it go farther than anybody else.—Turkey! Turkey!” I shrieked, almost weeping with delight.
Again Turkey’s cry rang through the darkness, and the light drew wavering nearer.
“Mind how you step, Turkey,” cried my father. “There’s a hole you may tumble into.”
“It wouldn’t hurt him much in the snow,” I said.
“Perhaps not, but he would probably lose his light, and that we can hardly afford.”
“Shout again,” cried Turkey. “I can’t make out where you are.”
My father shouted.