ed him to walk by his side, and even to lag a
little behind.

"Gobble, obble, obble!" said the turkey, behind some bushes, still
several rods off.

"Yes, that's my turkey!" said the man, ready enough to claim the unseen
fowl.

"How do you know he is yours?" asked Frank.

"I know his gobble. One I had stole gobbled jest like that." And the
secessionist's stern features relaxed a little.

Frank's relaxed a little, too; for, serious as his dilemma had seemed
a minute since, he could not but be amused by the man's undoubting
recognition of _that_ gobble.

"All turkeys make a noise alike," said Frank.

"No they don't, no they don't!" said the man, positively,--no doubt
fearing a plot to get the fowl away from him, and anxious to set up his
claim in season. "I reckon I know about turkeys. Hear that?"--as the
sound was heard again, still at a distance. "That's my bird. I should
know that gobble among five hundred."

Frank suppressed his merriment, thinking that now was his time to get
away.

"Well," said he, "unless you'll sell me the bird, I don't know that
there's any use of my going any farther with you."

He expected a repetition of the refusal to sell, when he would have the
best excuse in the world for making his escape. But Buckley was still
suspicious of some trick,--fearing, perhaps, that Frank would run off and
get help to secure the turkey.

"We'll see; we'll see. Wait till we get the bird," said the man. "You've
done me a good turn telling me about him, and mayhap I'll sell him to you
for your honesty. But wait a bit; wait a bit."

They were fast approaching the bushes where the supposed turkey was.

"Quit, quit, quit! Gobble, obble, obble!" said the pretended fowl.

"He _must_ know now," thought Frank, with renewed apprehension; but he
dared not run.

In fact, the old fellow was beginning to see that his recognition of
_his_ gobbler had been premature. A patch of blue uniform was visible
through the brush. The rebel stopped, and drew up his gun. As Hamlet
killed Polonius for a rat, so would he kill a Yankee for a turkey.
Click! the piece was cocked and aimed.

"Here, you old clodhopper, you; don't you shoot! don't you shoot!"
screamed Seth Tucket, rushing wildly out of the bushes just as the rebel
pulled the trigger.

XII.

THE SECESSIONIST'S TURKEYS.

In the mean time the boys watching from their ambush, and seeing that the
re