Paul laughed.  Jim’s words pleased him.

“I told nothing but the truth,” he said.  “Now, Jim, I’m going back for more, and I’d like to do this job all by myself.  I think I can gather at least six bagfuls, and we’ll heap them here by the wall.”

“An’ mighty good seas’nin’ they’ll be to deer an’ buffalo an’ b’ar meat,” said Jim Hart.  “It wuz a good thought uv yours, Paul.”

Paul worked the whole morning, and when he had gathered all the nuts in the house he estimated the quantity at several bushels.  Although he sought to conceal his pride, he cast more than one triumphant look at the great heap by the wall.

He and Jim went forth together in the afternoon with rude spades, made of wood and hardened at the edges in the fire, to dig for Indian turnip.

“It ain’t much of a veg’table,” said Jim, “but we might find it useful to give a new taste to our meat, or it might be uv some help doctorin’, in case any uv us fell sick.”

They found two or three of the roots, and the remainder of the afternoon they devoted to strengthening their house.  They did this with huge slabs of bark lying everywhere on the ground, fallen in former seasons.  Some they put on the roof, thatching in between with dry grass and leaves, and others they fastened on the sides.

“It ain’t purty,” said Jim, “but it turns rain an’ snow, an’ that’s what we’re after.”

“I take another view,” said Paul.  “It does look well.  It blends with the wilderness, and so it has a beauty of its own.”

The three hunters were not to return that night, and Paul and Jim kept house.  Jim slept lightly, and just before the dawn he rolled over in his buffalo robe and pushed Paul’s shoulder.

Paul awoke instantly, and sat up.

“What is it, Jim?” he asked anxiously.  It was his natural thought that some danger threatened, and it was so dark in the cabin that he could not see Jim’s face.

“Do you hear that hoo-hooing sound?” asked Jim Hart.

Paul listened and heard faintly a low, mellow note.

“What is it, Jim?” he asked.

“The call of the wild turkey.”

“What, Indians again?”

“No, it’s the real bird, talkin’.  An old gobbler is tellin’ his hens that day is comin’.  It’s a plumb waste on his part, because they know it theirselves, but he must jest let ’em know what a smart bird he is.  An’ it’s that pride uv his that will be his ruin.  Git up, Paul; we must have him an’ one uv his hens to eat.”

“Where do you think they are?” asked Paul.

“In the hick’ry grove.  I guess they lighted thar fur the night, when flyin’ ’cross the lake.”

The two hurried on their clothes, took their rifles, and stole out.  A faint tinge of light was just showing under the horizon in the east, but the air was not yet gray.  It was very cold at that early hour, and Paul shivered, but he soon forgot it in the ardor of the chase.