"This here chicken is fine!" he asserted.
The girl's eyes were turned to him. She smiled and glanced roguishly at her father. Lorry laughed outright.
"What is the joke?" she demanded.
"Nothin'; only my plate is empty, Miss Bronson."
Bronson grabbed up carving-knife and fork. "Great Caesar! I must have been dreaming. I was dreaming. I was recalling a turkey hunt down in Virginia with Colonel Stillwell and his man Plato. Plato was a good caller—but we didn't get a turkey. Now, this is as tender as—as it ought to be. A little more gravy? And as we came home, the colonel, who was of the real mint-julep type, proposed as a joke that Plato see what he could do toward getting some kind of bird for dinner that night. And when Plato lifted the covers, sure enough there was a fine, fat roast chicken. The colonel, who lived in town and did not keep chickens, asked Plato how much he had paid for it. Plato almost dropped the cover. 'Mars' George,' he said with real solicitude in his voice,' is you sick?' And speaking of turkeys—"
"Who was speaking of turkeys?" asked Dorothy.
"Why, I think this chicken is superior to any domestic turkey I ever tasted," concluded Bronson.
"Was you ever in politics?" queried Lorry. And they all laughed heartily.
After dinner Lorry asked for an apron.
Dorothy shook her finger at him. "It's nice of you—but you don't mean it."