"Speakin' of hens," he went on. "My missus was sayin' just yesterday how as——"
Tim was shouting. He was calling something to me. I could not make out what it was, for the wind-was rustling the corn-shocks, but I arose and feigned to listen.
"It's Tim," said I. "He's calling to you, Josiah. It's something about your red heifer."
"Red heifer—I haven't no red heifer," returned the old man.
"Did I say heifer? I should have said hog—excuse me," said I, blandly.
"But I have killed all my hogs," Josiah replied, undisturbed.
Tim shouted again, making a trumpet of his hands. To this day I don't know what he was calling to us, but when this second message reached Josiah's ears, it concerned some cider we had, that Tim was anxious to know if he would care for. At the suggestion Josiah's face became very earnest, and a minute later he was hurrying down the field to the spot where Tim's hat and Tip Pulsifer's shaggy hair showed above the wreck of a corn-shock.
"How could you hear what Tim was saying?" Mary asked.
It was almost the first word she had spoken to me, and I was in my chair again, and she was where I had planned so cunningly to have her.
"I know my brother's voice," I answered gravely.