"Have to take it feathers and all, then," said Bulliphant—"wimin folks are superstitious—don't b'lieve it's right to pick fowls in the night—'twas jest so with my wife's grandmother—she had the same complaint."
The stranger looked very hard at Bulliphant, and spit again, somewhat spitefully.
"Can give you mush, souse, slap-jacks, briled pork," continued Bulliphant, looking quizzically towards Turtle.
The stranger said, "he thought he'd stopped at a tavern—but he'd a great deal better turned himself into the woods, and browsed for supper"—and heaving a long sigh, sat down, and crossed his legs in a settled mood of desperation.
Bulliphant said "there warn't no cause for alarm—he'd seen sicker men than he die—and get well, too."
The stranger grunted and shifted his legs.
There was a long silence. All the Puddlefordians, except Ike and Bates, who were absorbed in their game, were looking soberly and steadily into the burning logs.
"Turtle," exclaimed Swipes, at last, breaking the solitude—"is that man goin' to die?"
"Can't tell," replied Turtle; "his life's on a pize—may turn one way, may turn t'other," and he took out his pipe, and blew a long whiff.
"Sleep well, last night?"