“Wait a minute, sir,” pleaded Mrs. Tidd, “ Homer ’ll get him.”
Dan’l Webster would neither be coaxed nor commanded. He wanderer up and down the shelf, gobbling vociferously into the faces of the excited mob.
“Henry, go and get a pistol,” cried Mr. Richards, turning to one of his clerks.
“Homer,”— Mrs. Tidd clutched the boy’s arm,—“why don’t you make b’lieve you ’re shootin’ Dan’l? Maybe he ’ll lie down, so you can git him.”
Homer called for a broom, He tossed it, gun fashion, across his shoulder, and crept along slowly, sliding a ladder before him to the spot where the turkey stood watching with intent eyes. He put one foot upon the lowest step, then he burst out in a spirited whistle. It was “Marching through Georgia.” The bird stared at him fixedly,
“Bang!” cried Homer, and he pointed the broom straight at the recreant turkey.
Dan'l Webster dropped stiff. A second later Homer had a firm grasp of the scaly legs. Dan'l returned instantly to life, but the rebellious head was tucked under his master’s jacket. Dan'l Webster thought he was being strangled to death.
“There!” cried Homer, triumphantly. He closed the lid of the poultry-crate and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “There! I guess you won't get out again.”
He followed Mr. Richards to the front of the store to view the devastation.
“Who ’d have thought turkeys could have ripped up strong wire like that?” cried the enraged market man, pointing to the shattered door.
“I guess Dan’l began the mischief,” said Homer, soberly; “he ’s awful strong.”
“I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on Dan'l,” exclaimed Mr. Richards. “I ’ll hate to see Finch. He ‘ll be in on the 4.20 train, He’s conservative; he never had any use for the turkey show.”
“When did you find out that they—what had happened?” asked Homer, timidly.
“At five o’clock, Two of the men got here early. They telephoned me, I never saw such destruction in my life. Your turkeys had sampled most everything in the store, from split peas to molasses. What they didn’t eat they knocked over or tore open. I guess they won’t need feeding for a week. They ’re chuckful of oatmeal, beans, crackers, peanuts, pickles, toothpicks, prunes, soap, red herrings, cabbage—about everything their crops can hold.”
“I ’m awful sorry,” faltered Homer.
“So am I,” said Mr. Richards, resolutely, “Now, the best thing you can do is to take your flock and clear out. I ’ve had enough of performing turkeys.”
Homer and his mother waited at the depot for the 11 o’clock train, Beside them stood a crate filled with turkeys that wore a well-fed, satisfied expression. Somebody tapped Homer on the shoulder.
“You ’re the boy who does the stunts with turkeys, are n’t you?” asked a well-dressed man with a silk hat, and a flower in his buttonhole.
“Yes,” answered the boy, wonderingly.
“I ’ve been hunting for you. That was a great rumpus you made at Finch & Richards’s. The whole town’s talking about it.”
“Yes,” answered Homer again, and he blushed scarlet.
“Taking your turkeys home?”
Homer nodded.
“I ’ve come to see if we can keep them in town a few days longer.”
The boy shook his head vigorously. “I don’t want any more turkey shows.”
“Not if the price is big enough to make it worth your while?”
“No!” said Homer, sturdily.
“Let us go into the station and talk it over.”
On Thanksgiving afternoon the Colonial Theater, the best vaudeville house in the city, held a throng that had dined well and was happy enough to appreciate any sort of fun. The children—hundreds of them—shrieked with delight over every act. The women laughed, the men applauded with great hearty hand-claps. A little buzz of excitement went round the house when, at the end of the fourth turn, two boys, instead of setting up the regulation big red number, displayed a brand-new card, It read: “Extra Number— Homer Tidd and his Performing Turkeys.” A shout of