But though Angus and Jean felt their responsibilities and endeavored to live up to them, young Turkey did not. He was a curious combination, with as many moods and shifts as an April day. By turns he was headstrong and impulsive, and then coldly calculating. If he felt like it, he would be industrious; but if not, he would be deliberately and provokingly idle. In the days of Adam Mackay these qualities had been not so apparent; but with the passing of his father he recognized no authority and he resented bitterly the least suggestion of control.
He would soon have gotten completely out of hand had Angus permitted it. Matters came to a show-down one morning when Turkey, snug between his blankets, delivered a flat ultimatum to his brother's command that he get up and help pick potatoes.
"You go plum!" said Turkey. "Saturday's a holiday, and I'm goin' fishin'. Pick spuds yourself!"
The next moment he was yanked out of his nest by the ankle and, fighting like a young wildcat, was thrown on the floor.
"Will you pick those spuds?" Angus demanded.
"No!" Turkey shouted, and Angus whirled him over on his face and reaching out acquired a leather slipper.
"Get this straight," he said. "You'll pick spuds, or I'll lick you till you do."
"You lick me, and I'll kill you," roared Turkey, emphasizing the threat with language gleaned from certain teamsters of his acquaintance, but which was cut short by the slipper.
"Will you come to work now?" Angus asked after a heated interval.
"No!" yelled Turkey, sobbing more with rage than with pain, "no, I won't, you big—"