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 assistant auditor in the
Corruga