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.

"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 glasses.

"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