"Do you hear that hoo-hooing sound?" asked Jim Hart.
Paul listened and heard faintly a low, mellow note.
"What is it, Jim?" he asked.
"The call of the wild turkey."
"What, Indians again?"
"No, it's the real bird, talkin'. An old gobbler is tellin' his hens that day is comin'. It's a plumb waste on his part, because they know it theirselves, but he must jest let 'em know what a smart bird he is. An' it's that pride uv his that will be his ruin. Git up, Paul; we must have him an' one uv his hens to eat."
"Where do you think they are?" asked Paul.
"In the hick'ry grove. I guess they lighted thar fur the night, when flyin' 'cross the lake."
The two hurried on their clothes, took their rifles, and stole out. A faint tinge of light was just showing under the horizon in the east, but the air was not yet gray. It was very cold at that early hour, and Paul shivered, but he soon forgot it in the ardor of the chase.
"Slip along softer nor a cat, Paul," said Jim. "We don't want to give old Mr. Gobbler any warnin' that his time hez come. Thar, hear him? The tarnal fool! He's jest bound to show us where he is."