“What!” exclaimed Joe, rising up on his elbow with unwonted vigour, and his eyes riveted on the speaker.
“Yes, its bill”, continued Boone. “And while my cane was brandished in the air and about descending on its devoted head, a low clucking arrested my arm, and approaching closer to it than before, and gazing steadfastly a moment, I lowered my cane to its usual position, and fell back laughing on the grass among the raspberries you had dropped.”
“Mr. Boone—Mr. Boone!” cried Joe, springing up in a sitting attitude, and seizing the hand of the veteran, “for Heaven’s sake tell me what it was?”
“It was an old SITTING HEN!” said Boone.
“Upon your honour?” continued Joe, leaping upon his feet, and staring the aged hunter in the face, while his eyes gleamed with irrepressible hope and anxiety.
“It was nothing else, upon my honour,” replied Boone, laughing in concert with the rest.
“Huzza! huzza!! huzza!!!” shouted Joe, casting the bandages hither and thither, and dancing nimbly over the floor. “Fal-de-lal—tider-e-i— tider-e-o— tider-e-um!” he continued, in frenzied delight, and, observing Sneak at the door with an armful of plantain (who had returned in time to witness his abrupt recovery, and now continued to regard him with wonder and doubt—at times thinking he was delirious,) skipped up and held out both hands, as if inviting him to dance.
“Dod rot it, your leg ain’t swelled a bit!” said Sneak.
“Don’t use that bad word, Sneak,” said Mary.
“I won’t—but dod—he’s had me running all over—”