The Lanarth turkeys were behaving in just this reprehensible manner, and Pocahontas was working herself into a frenzy over them.  Three times she engineered the flock successfully up to the open door, and three times the same old brown hen advanced, peered cautiously into the house, started tragically aside as though she beheld some evil thing, and produced a panic and a stampede.

“You miserable wretch!” exclaimed Pocahontas, hurling her empty basket impotently at the dusky author of her woe, “I could kill you!  Shoo! shoo!  Sawney, why don’t you help me?  Head them!  Run round them!  Shoo! shoo! you abominable creatures!”

Sawney essayed to obey, grasping the straps of his boots, and lifting his feet very high.

“Take them off and run,” commanded Pocahontas.  But Sawney would as soon have parted with his skin.  “I dwine ter run,” he responded, and gripped his boots valiantly.  It was of no use.  Sawney had gotten too much boot for his money, and if walking in them was difficult, running was impossible.  He held on to them bravely, but that only impeded progress further; the faithless cowhides wabbled, twisted, and finally landed him sprawling on his back in the middle of the flock, which promptly retired to distant parts of the poultry yard, “puttering” and dodging.

“Sawney proves a broken reed, as usual,” called a pleasant voice from somewhere in the background; “here, let me help you,” and Nesbit Thorne leaped over the fence, and advanced, gun in hand, to the rescue.

“It’s the fault of his ‘sto’ boots,’” Pocahontas explained, laughing, as she extended her hand.  “Sawney’s intentions were honorable enough.  I shall be glad of your assistance—­as usual,” with a merry glance, “for these aggravating birds are shattering my nerves, and ruining my temper.”

Then, together, the pair pursued the unruly fowls, and pressed upon them and buffeted them, until the turkeys were right glad to defy the vision of the old brown sensationalist, and take refuge in their house.  Pocahontas closed the door with a sharp bang almost upon the tail of the hindmost one, locked it, and then turned cordially to her companion and invited him to remain and take tea with them.

Thorne glanced down at his splashed boots and corduroys.  “I’m scarcely in trim for a lady’s tea table,” he said, smiling, “you must excuse me, and let me come some other time.  I met your brother on the low grounds as I came up.  I’ve been shooting over his land, and called to leave your mother a few birds.”

“Had you good sport?” inquired Pocahontas, with interest, watching him empty the pockets of his shooting-coat on the top of an adjacent chicken-coop, and admiring the soft shades, and exquisite markings of the plumage of the dead birds.

“Here’s old ‘bur-rabbit,’” said Thorne, reaching his hand behind his back, and drawing out the pretty brown beast by the legs.  “I knocked him over just below your garden fence in a little patch of briers.  It was a pretty shot; see, right through the head.  I hate to mangle my game.  I’d pretty fair sport; the birds are a little wild, though, and I had no dog.  I lost a fine duck—­a canvas-back, this afternoon, by its falling into deep water.  I must send North for a brace of good dogs.”