Wheeling Gull Isle a turkey in a turtle's shell

Perdition flinched at the boys' explosion of speech, ears folding back along his head--which wasn't helpful because sometimes it was hard for him to understand what people said to him. The words jumbled together into one long rambly confusing mess, and he stood for a moment, blinking several times, and tried to pull it all apart again into something coherent.

"Did... Did you say your name was Mo?" he asked, after a few seconds. "I..." He grimaced. "I have a hard time hearing sometimes." What else had the boy said? Something about hunting? "I'm afraid I wouldn't be very helpful in a hunt, but..." He sighed, thinking. Bartholomew would probably expect him to pull his weight somehow if he decided to stay on the isle. "What are you hunting? Maybe I can give you a few pointers."