"Mais non," says Leon, meaning nothing sensible, "you do not understand the duck perhaps. Me, I raised them as a boy in Perronne. But the turkey! Pouff! He is what you call silly in the head. One cannot say what they will do next. Anything may happen to such birds."

He makes such a fuss over the way they hog the grain at feedin' time that I have to have a separate run built for 'em. You'd almost think he was jealous. But Joe, on the other hand, treats 'em like pets. I don't know how many times a day he feeds 'em, and he's always luggin' one up to me to show how heavy they're gettin'. I was waitin' until they got into top notch condition before springin' 'em on Basil Pyne. I meant to get a gasp out of him when I did.

Finally I set a day for the private view and asked the Pynes to come over special. Basil, he's all prepared to be thrilled as I tows him out.

"But you don't mean to say this is your first venture at turkey raising?" he demands.

"Ab-so-lutely," says I.

"Strordinary!" says Basil.

At the end of the turkey run though I finds Joe starin' through the wire with a panicky look on his face. "Well, Joe," says I, "anything wrong with the flock?"

"I dunno," says he. "Maybe da go bughouse, maybe da got jag on. See!"

Blamed if it don't look like he'd made two close guesses. Honest, every one of them gobblers was staggerin' 'round, b.u.mpin' against each other and runnin' into the fence, with their tails spread and their long necks wavin' absurd. A 3 a.m. bunch of New Year's Eve booze punishers couldn't have given a more scandalous exhibition.

"My word!" says Basil.

Course, it's up to me to produce an explanation. Which I does prompt.

"Oh, that's nothing!" says I. "They're just tryin' the duck waddle, imitatin' their neighbors in the next run. Turkeys always do that sooner or later if you have ducks near 'em. They keep at it until they're dizzy."

"Really, now?" says Basil. "I never heard that before."

"Not many people have," says I. "But they'll get over it in an hour or so. Look in tomorrow and you'll see."

Basil says he will. And after he's gone I opens the court martial.

"Joe," I demands, "what you been feedin' them turks?"

It took five minutes of cross examination before I got him to remember that just before breakfast he'd sneaked out and swiped a pail of stuff that he thought Leon was savin' for his ducks. And what do you guess?

Well, him and Leon had gone into the home-made wine business last fall, utilizin' all them grapes we grew out in the back lot, and only the day before they'd gone through the process of rackin' it from one barrel into another. It was the stuff that was left in the bottom that Joe had swiped for his pets.

"Huh!" says I. "And now you've not only disgraced those turkeys for life but you've made me hand Mr. Pyne some raw nature-fakin' stuff that n.o.body but a fool author would swallow."

"I mucha sorry," says Joe, hangin' his head.

"All right," says I. "I expect you meant well. But it was a b.u.m hunch.

Now see they have plenty of water to drink and by mornin' maybe they'll sober up."

I meant to keep an eye on 'em myself for the rest of the day, but right after luncheon Auntie blows in again, to pay a farewell visit before startin' South, and the turkeys slipped my mind. Not until she asks how I'm gettin' on with my flock of quail did I remember.

"Oh, quail!" says I. "No, I had to ditch that. Couldn't get the right sort of eggs."

Auntie smiles sarcastic. "What a pity!" says she. "But the various kinds of poultry you were going in for? Did you----"

"Did I?" says I. "Say, you just come out and---- Well, Leon, anything you want special?"

"Pardon, m'sieu," says old Leon, sc.r.a.pin' his foot, "but--but the turkeys."

"Yes, I know," says I. "They're doing that new trot Joe's been teaching 'em."

"But no, m'sieu," says Leon. "They have become deceased--utterly."

"Wha-a-a-at?" says I. "Oh, oh, I guess it ain't as bad as that."

"Pardon," says Leon, "but I discover them steef, les pieds dans le ciel.

Thus!" And he ill.u.s.trates by holdin' both hands above his head.

"Perhaps it would be best to investigate," suggests Auntie. "I have no doubt Leon is right. Turkeys require expert care and handling, and when you were so sure of raising them I quite expected something like this."

"Yes, I know you did," says I. "Anyway, let's take a look."

And there they were, all six of 'em, with their feet in the air, and as stiff as if they'd just come from cold storage.

"Like somebody had thrown in a gas attack on 'em," says I. "Good night, turks! You sure did make it unanimous, didn't you?"

I expect my smile was kind of a sickly performance, for the last person I'd have wanted to be in on the obsequies was Auntie. I will say, though, that she don't try to rub it in. No, she tells of similar cases she's known of when she was a girl, about whole flocks bein' poisoned by something they'd found to eat.

"The only thing to do now," says she, "is to save the feathers."

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.

"The long tail and wing feathers can be used for making fans and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g hats," says Auntie, "while the smaller ones are excellent for stuffing pillows. They must be picked at once."

"Oh, I'm satisfied to call 'em a total loss," says I.

Auntie wouldn't have it, though. She sends Leon for a big ap.r.o.n and a couple of baskets and has me round up Joe to help. When I left they were all three busy and the turkey feathers were coming off fast. All there was left for me to do was to go in and break the sad news to Vee.

"As a turkey raiser, I'm a flivver," says I.

"But I can't see that it's your fault at all," says Vee.

"Can't you?" says I. "Ask Auntie."

If the next day hadn't been Sunday, I could have sneaked off to town and dodged the little talk Auntie insists on givin' about the folly of amateurs tacklin' jobs they know nothing about. As it is I has to stick around and take the gaff. Then about ten o'clock Basil Pyne has to show up and reopen the subject.

"Oh, by the way," says he, "how are the turkeys this morning? Are they still practicing that wonderful duck walk you were telling me about?"

Auntie has just fixed an accusin' eye on me, and I was wonderin' if it would be any sin to take Basil out back somewhere and choke him, when in rushes old Leon with a wild look on his face. He's so excited that he's almost speechless and all he can get out is a throaty gurgle.

"For the love of soup, let's have it," says I. "What's gone wrong now?"

"O-o-o la la!" says Leon. "O-o-o la la!"

"That's right, sing it if you can't say it," says I.

"Parbleu! Nom de Dieu! Les dindons!" he gasps.