It was only when the glistening brown turkey was carried to the dinner table the next day that the boys had any relief from the constant barrage of kidding they had been receiving all morning.
“I never thought I’d have to urge the menfolks of my family to put their minds on food,” Mom said, “but that is exactly what I’m doing. The boys have had enough teasing. After all, they’re not always wrong.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Sandy said, sliding into his chair.
“All the same,” Ken said, “I still—”
“If you start all over again, Ken,” Mom warned, “I won’t be responsible.”
Ken smiled at her. “O.K., Mom.”
Dinner conversation was limited to murmured comments about the food, which Richard Holt insisted was better than any he had ever had in the most famous restaurants of the world. And after dinner a heavy peace settled on the household, broken only when occasional callers dropped in for brief holiday visits. Outside it had grown slightly warmer, but the gray sky promised more snow. By six o’clock heavy snowflakes were falling steadily.
Richard Holt roused himself from a sleepy contemplation of the fire. “This is no night for you boys to drive me into New York,” he announced. “I’ll take the train instead.”
“Why don’t you just stay over until morning?” Pop suggested. “Doesn’t look as though this will last long. The roads should be better then.”
The correspondent shook his head. “Wish I could. But I promised Granger I’d be in early tomorrow morning to talk over that Washington assignment.” He turned to the boys. “Unless you’re actually snowed in here I’ll expect to see you tomorrow, as we’d planned. I’ll meet you at the apartment in the afternoon, and we’ll have dinner before the wrestling matches.” He got to his feet. “Anybody have a timetable?”