"I think so, too," echoed her husband.
"And so do I!" added Stephen softly, as he exchanged an affectionate smile with his father.
CHAPTER XIX
THE END OF THE HOUSE PARTY
As they were persons of strong constitution and in good athletic training neither Mr. Tolman nor Steve were any the worse for the narrow escape of the morning, and although a trifle spent with excitement both were able to take their places at the dinner table so that no cloud rested on the festivity of the day.
Certainly such a dinner never was,—or if there ever had been one like it in history at least Dick Martin had never had the luck to sit down to it. The soup steaming and hot, the celery white and crisp, the sweet potatoes browned in the oven and gleaming beneath their glaze of sugar, the cranberry sauce vivid as a bowl of rubies; to say nothing of squash, and parsnips and onions! And as for the turkey,—why, it was the size of an ostrich! With what resignation it lay upon its back, with what an abject spirit of surrender,—as if it realized that resistance was futile and that it must docilely offer itself up to make perfect the feast. And the pudding, the golden-tinted pies with their delicate crust, the nuts; the pyramid of fruit, riotous in color; the candies of every imaginable hue and flavor! Was it a wonder that Dick, who had never before beheld a real New England home Thanksgiving, regarded the novelty with eyes as large as saucers and ate until there was not room for another mouthful?
"Gee!" he gasped in a whisper to Stephen, as he sank weakly back into his chair when the coffee made its appearance. "This sure is some dinner."
The others who chanced to overhear the observation laughed.