On the next Saturday, as Mr. Ashburn was walking over his farm, he saw a man sitting on one of his fences, dressed in a jockey-cap, and wearing a short hunting-coat. He had a rifle over his shoulder, and carried a powder-flask, shot and bird bags. In fact, he was a fully equipped sportsman, a somewhat rara avis in those parts.
"What's this lazy fellow doing here?" said Ashburn, to himself. "I wonder where he comes from?"
"Good morning, neighbour," spoke out the stranger, in a familiar way, as soon as the farmer came within speaking distance. "Is there any good game about here? Any wild-turkeys, or pheasants?"
"There are plenty of squirrels," returned Ashburn, a little sarcastically, "and the woods are full of robbins."
"Squirrels make a first-rate pie. But I needn't tell you that, my friend. Every farmer knows the taste of squirrels," said the sportsman with great good-humour. "Still, I want to try my hand at a wild-turkey. I've come off here into the country to have a crack at game better worth the shooting than we get in the neighbourhood of P—."
"You're from P—, then?" said the farmer.
"Yes, I live in P—."
"When did you leave there?"
"Four or five weeks ago."
"Then you don't know what wheat is selling for now?"