Ethan expected to hear the shambling step going away with a [v]celerity in keeping with the importance of the errand. On the contrary, the step was approaching the crag.
A moment of suspense, and there appeared among the jagged ends of the broken vines a small red head, a deeply freckled face, and a pair of sharp, eager blue eyes. George Birt had carefully laid himself down on his stomach, only protruding his head beyond the verge of the crag, that he might not fling away his life in his curiosity.
“Did ye git it?” he asked, with bated breath.
“Git what?” demanded poor Ethan, surprised and impatient.
“The tur-r-key—what ye hev done been talkin’ ’bout,” said George Birt.
Ethan had lost all interest in the turkey.
“Yes, yes; but run along, bub. I mought fall off’n this hyar place,—I’m gittin’ stiff sittin’ still so long,—or the wind mought blow me off. The wind is blowing toler’ble brisk.”
“Gobbler or hen?” asked George Birt eagerly.
“It air a hen,” said Ethan. “But look-a-hyar, George, I’m a-waitin’ on ye an’ if I’d fall off’n this hyar place, I’d be ez dead ez a door-nail in a minute.”
“Waal, I’m goin’ now,” said George Birt, with gratifying alacrity. He raised himself from his [v]recumbent position, and Ethan heard him shambling off, kicking every now and then at the fallen leaves as he went.