"If I were to tell that bony bachelor about the apple turnovers and rabbit pie, the gingerbread and quail dumplings, the baked beans and mince tarts, the succotash and blackberry short-cake, the whole shoats and cinnamon buns, the halved squash pudding and caraway cookies that ma can bake in such an oven, the poor fellow would lick his chops and fall sick from in-di-ges-tion of the im-ag-i-na-tion!" From some source Doby had learned that, in the Old World, every plant and animal which is good to eat had been discovered and used by men centuries before people had begun to write down any sort of history. In the New World of the Americas, the natives had long ago found out what was good to eat on their continent, and could show the immigrating white man delicious foods which he had never before tasted--the golden maize, the bison, and the turkey. Doby felt that a personal experience of some of these dainties would make Ol' Pap Soisson joyous. So he kept his eye out for the turkey. He was hidden where he could not be seen by any man. He fancied that he could not be noticed by any wild creature and that he himself could see everything about him. Deluded hunter! If he had been clever enough to peer more closely into the weeds below him, what trouble he might have saved! Soon, along the run far to the north, there was a stir. He could not make it out. To the south was other movement. "Doby, 'tend to business," he cautioned himself. From the north came a turkey--a gobbler--_the_ gobbler. This _was_ luck. Doby fitted an arrow. From the south came a boy--a big boy--an Indian. This was not so lucky. Doby slackened his bowstring. The savage had already seen the turkey. Silent and shadowy, he crept from tree to tree toward the stately bird. His stalk was a model of woodcraft. What chance had Doby against such skill--against any grown boy? Very little. Against a wild Indian he had none at all. The dismayed Holman sat so still that he could hear his own ribs creak. This was no longer his game. The hunter Doby was in danger of becoming the hunted Doby. He lost all appetite for turkey. The wise gobbler--he was neither young nor tender--kept a sharp outlook on the shadows, an alert regard for his own giblets. He was watching the Indian quite as closely as the Indian was watching him, and with as much anxiety as Doby was watching them both. Then with a strategic side-step he scuttled into the weeds near the foot of Doby's tree and was off at a tangent. Instantly the Indian let fly one arrow, then a second one. Both whizzed in the same direction and at the same mark. There followed a great squawk and flutter. A turkey with an arrow through its neck flopped into sight and went scurrying north over the run. The Indian was in hot pursuit.