The lads fired almost together, and two of the smaller turkeys sank to the ground, while the rest of the flock rose in flight, but only to settle again within easy gun-shot.
"No use killing any more," Walter said, as the two lads emerged from behind the oaks and picked up the dead birds.
"No," Charley agreed. "These will be all we can use. They would spoil before we got back to camp. But say, I am tickled to see game so plentiful. When we get the machine and camp out here, it will make a big difference in our grub bills."
"Hold on a minute," said Walter, as his chum turned to retrace his steps to the road. "Doesn't it strike you as queer—this bare space in the heart of a great oak forest?"
"It is odd," admitted Charley. "I never thought of that until you mentioned it. Let's look around a bit."
The boys, up to now, had barely noticed the clearing, all their interest being centered on the turkeys. As they advanced into it they were surprised to note that it was not a freak of nature, but had been carefully cleared by hand. The indestructible live oak stumps still bore evidence of the axe. Wonderingly, the lads made their way forward.
"Those are not live oak trees at the other end of the clearing," declared Charley, who was looking around with eager eyes. "Let's see what they are."
A few minutes' walk brought them to the fringe of trees that had drawn the lads' attention. Here they paused, with an exclamation of astonishment.
"Gee!" Charley cried, "they are orange trees, and, from their size, they must be hundreds of years old."