There was no bird that Archie B. could not mimic. He knew every creature of the wood. Every wild thing of the field and forest was his friend. Slipping into the underbrush, a hundred yards from the road down which he knew Jud Carpenter had to ride, he prepared himself for action.
Drawing a turkey-call from his pocket, he gave the call of the wild turkey going to roost, as softly as a violinist tries his instrument to see if it is in tune.
Prut—prut—prut—it rang out clear and distinctly.
“All right,”—he said—“she'll do.”
He had not long to wait. Up the road he soon saw the Whipper-in, riding leisurely along.
Archie B. swelled with anger at sight of the complacent and satisfactory way he rode along. He even thought he saw a smile—a kind of even-up smile—light his face.
When opposite his hiding place, Archie B. put his call to his mouth: Prut—Prut—P-R-U-T—it rang out. Then Prut—prut!
Jud Carpenter stopped his horse instantly.
“Turkeys goin' to roost.”—he muttered. He listened for the direction.
Prut—Prut—it came out of the bushes on the right—a hundred yards away under a beech tree.