“You were very kind to be an exception,” murmured Carley.
“You look out fer Tom Hutter, an’ I reckon Flo ain’t so darn above layin’ traps fer you. ’Specially as she’s sweet on your beau. I seen them together a lot.”
“Yes?” interrogated Carley, encouragingly.
“Kilbourne is the best fellar thet ever happened along Oak Creek. I helped him build his cabin. We’ve hunted some together. Did you ever hunt?”
“No.”
“Wal, you’ve shore missed a lot of fun,” he said. “Turkey huntin’. Thet’s what fetches the gurls. I reckon because turkeys are so good to eat. The old gobblers hev begun to gobble now. I’ll take you gobbler huntin’ if you’d like to go.”
“I’m sure I would.”
“There’s good trout fishin’ along heah a little later,” he said, pointing to the stream. “Crick’s too high now. I like West Fork best. I’ve ketched some lammin’ big ones up there.”
Carley was amused and interested. She could not say that Charley had shown any indication of his mental peculiarity to her. It took considerable restraint not to lead him to talk more about Flo and Glenn. Presently they reached the turn in the road, opposite the cottage Carley had noticed yesterday, and here her loquacious escort halted.
“You take the trail heah,” he said, pointing it out, “an’ foller it into West Fork. So long, an’ don’t forget we’re goin’ huntin’ turkeys.”