"Ah, can the ding-dong stuff, Leon," says I, "and let's hear the English of it."

"The--the turkeys!" he pants out.

And that did get a groan out of me. "Once more!" says I. "Say, have a heart! Can't anybody think of a more cheerful line? Turkeys! Well, shoot it. They're still dead, I suppose?"

"But no," says Leon. "They--they have return to life."

"Oh come, Leon!" says I. "You must have been sampling some of them wine dregs yourself. Do you mean to say----"

"If M'sieu would but go and observe," puts in Leon. "Me, I have seen them with my eye. Truly they are as in life."

"Why, after we picked them last night I saw you throw them over the fence," says I.

"Even so," says Leon. "But come."

Well, this time we had a full committee--Vee, Auntie, Basil, Madame Battou, old Leon and myself--and we all trails out to the back lot. And say, once again Leon is right. There they are, all huddled together on the lowest branch of a bent-over apple tree and every last one of 'em as shy of feathers as the back of your hand. It's the most indecent poultry exhibit I ever saw.

"My word!" says Basil, starin' through his thick gla.s.ses.

"That don't half express it, Basil," says I.

"But--but what happened to them?" he insists.

"I hate to admit it," says I, "but they had a party yesterday. Uh-huh.

Wine dregs. And they got soused to the limit--paralyzed. Then, on the advice of a turkey expert"--here I glances at Auntie--"we decided that they were dead, and we picked 'em to conserve their feathers. Swell idea, eh? Just a little mistake about their being utterly deceased, as Leon put it. They were down, but not out. Look at the poor things now, though."

And then Vee has to snicker. "Aren't they just too absurd!" says she.

"See them shiver."

"I should think they'd be blushin'," says I. "What's the next move?" I asks Auntie. "Do I put in steam heat for 'em?"

It takes Auntie a few minutes to recover, but when she does she's right there with the bright little scheme. "We must make jackets for them,"

says she.

"Eh?" says I.

"Certainly," she goes on. "They'll freeze if we don't. And it's perfectly practical. Of course, I've never seen it done, but I'm sure they'll get along just as well if their feathers were replaced by something that will keep them warm."

"Couldn't get the Red Cross ladies to knit sweaters for 'em, could we?"

I suggests.

Auntie pays no attention to this, but asks Vee if she hasn't some old flannel shirts, or something of the kind.

Well, while they're plannin' out the new winter styles of turkey costumes, Joe and Leon rigs up a wood stove in their coop, shoos the flock in, and proceeds to warm 'em up. They took turns that night keeping the fire going, I understand.

And when I comes home Monday afternoon from the office I ain't even allowed to say howdy to the youngster until I've been dragged out and introduced triumphant to the only flock of custom-tailored turkeys in the country. Auntie and Vee and Madame Battou sure had done a neat job of costumin', considerin' the fact that they'd had no paper patterns to go by. But somehow they'd doped out a one-piece union suit cut high in the neck with sort of a knickerbocker effect to the lower end. Mostly they seemed to have used an old near-silk quilted bathrobe of mine, but I also recognized a khaki army shirt that I had no notion of throwin' in the discard yet awhile. And if you'll believe it them gobblers was struttin' around as chesty as if they hadn't lost a feather.

"Aren't they just too cute for anything?" demands Vee.

"Worse than that," says I, "they look almost as human as so many floor-walkers. I hope they ain't going to be hard on clothes, for my wardrobe wouldn't stand many such raids."

"Oh, don't worry about that," says Vee. "We shall be eating one every week or so."

"Then don't let me know when the executions take place," says I. "As for me, I shouldn't feel like tellin' Joe to kill one without an order from the High Sheriff of the county."

And say, if I'm ever buffaloed into buyin' any more live turkeys, I'm going to demand a written guarantee that they're Prohibitionists.

CHAPTER VII

ERNIE AND HIS BIG NIGHT

I'm kind of glad I was with Ernie when he had his big night. If I hadn't been I never would have believed it of him. Not if he'd produced affidavits. No! It would have been too much of a strain on the imagination.

For somehow it's hard to connect Ernie with anything like that, even when I've seen what I have. You could almost tell that, just by his name--Ernest Sudders. And when I add that he's a.s.sistant auditor in the Corrugated offices you ought to have the picture complete. You know what a.s.sistant auditors are like.

Ernie ran true to type. And then some. I expect there was one or two other things he might have been; such as manager of a gift shop, or window dresser for the misses' department, or music teacher in a girls'

boarding school. But I doubt if he'd ever been such a success as he was at the high desk. Seemed like he was born to be an a.s.sistant auditor. He was holding the job when I first came to the Corrugated as sub office boy; he still has it, and I can think of only one party that could pry him loose from it--the old boy with the long scythe.

For one thing, Ernie gives all his time to being a.s.sistant auditor. Not just office hours. I'll bet he's one even in his sleep. He looks the part, dresses the part, thinks the part. He don't work at it, he lives it. Talk about this four dimension stuff. Ernie gets along with two--up the column from the bottom, and both ways from the decimal point.

Not such a bad-lookin' chap, Ernie, only a bit stiff from the waist up.

You know, like he had his spine in a cast. Then there's the neck-apple.

Ernie fits his into a high white wing collar and sets it off with a black ascot tie and a pearl stickpin. Also he sports the only black cutaway that's worn reg'lar into the General Offices. Oh, yes, Ernie could go on at a minute's notice as best man or pall-bearer. I don't mean he's often called on to be either. He only wears that costume because that's his idea of how an a.s.sistant auditor should be arrayed.

One of these super-system birds, Ernie is. He could turn out an annual report every Sat.u.r.day if the directors asked for it. Never has to hunt for a bunch of stray figures. He has everything cross-indexed neat and accurate. He's that way about everything, always a spare umbrella and an extra pair of rubbers in his locker, and he carries a pearl-handle penknife in a chamois case.

But in spite of all that I'm sorry to state that around the Corrugated Ernie is rated as a walking joke. We all josh him, even up to Old Hickory Ellins. The only ones he ever seems to mind much though are the lady typists. The hardest thing he does during the day is when he has to walk past that battery of near-vamps, for they never fail to lay down a rolling eye barrage that gets him pink in the ears.

Course, having noticed that, I generally use it as my cue for pa.s.sing pleasant words to Ernie. "Honest now," I'll ask him, "which one of them Lizzie Mauds are you playin' as favorite these days, Ernie?"

And Ernie, he'll color up like a fire hydrant and protest: "Now, say, Torchy! You know very well I've never spoken to one of them."

"Yes, you tell it well," I'll say, "but I'm onto you, old sport."

I don't know how long I've been shooting stuff like that at Ernie, and it always gets him going. I have a hunch, though, that he kind of likes it. These skirt-shy boys usually do. And as a matter of fact I expect the only female he ever looked square in the eye is that old maid sister of his that he lives with somewhere over in Jersey.

So this night when we were doing overtime together at the office and it was a case of going out for dinner I'd planned to slip a little something on Ernie by towin' him to a joint where the lights were bright and they were apt to have silver buckets on the floor. I was hoping he might see some perfect lady light up a cigarette, or maybe give him a cut-up glance over the top of her fizz goblet. It would be cheerin' to watch Ernie tryin' to let on he didn't notice.

He'd already called Sister on the long distance telephone and told her not to wait up for him, explainin' just what it was we was workin' on and how we might not be through until quite late. And Sister had advised him to be sure to wear his silk m.u.f.fler and not to sleep past his station if he had to take the 11:48 out.

"Gosh, Ernie!" says I. "If you 're that way now what'll you be when you're married?"

"But I hadn't thought of getting married," says he. "Really!"

"Yes," says I, "and you silent, thoughtless boys are the very ones who jump into matrimony unexpected. Some evenin' you'll meet just the right babidoll and the next thing we know you'll be sendin' us at home cards.