Time passes, and no sign of Hawkins returning. Tucker’s position becomes intolerable; the bird is getting cold, its juices drying up, the repast will be spoilt.
Besides, his comrade has not kept faith with him. In all probability he has eaten supper at the house, and at that moment is enjoying a jorum of whisky punch, quite forgetful of him. Tucker. Cris can stand it no longer; and, drawing out his knife, he takes the turkey by the leg, and cuts a large slice from its breast.
This eaten, another slice of breast is severed and swallowed. Then a wing is carved off, and lastly a leg, which he polishes to the smoothness of a drumstick.—
The young hunter, now no longer ravenous, proceeds more leisurely, and completes his repast by tranquilly chewing up the gizzard, and after it the liver—the last a tit-bit upon the prairies, as in a Strasburg paté.
Washing all down with a gourd of whisky and water, he lights his pipe; and, seated by the mangled remains of the gobbler, commences smoking.
For a time the inhaled nicotine holds him tranquil; though not without wondering why his comrade is so long in patting in an appearance.
When over two hours have elapsed, his wonder becomes changed to anxiety. Not strange it should, recalling the reason why he has been left alone.
This increasing to keen apprehension, he can no longer stay within the tent. He will go up to the house, and find out what is detaining Hawkins.
Donning his skin cap, and stepping out into the open air, he starts off towards the mission-building.
Less than ten minutes’ walking brings him to its walls, by their main front entrance.