"Did I?" says I. "Say, you just come out and—— Well, Leon, anything you want special?"
"Pardon, m'sieu," says old Leon, scrapin' his foot, "but—but the turkeys."
"Yes, I know," says I. "They're doing that new trot Joe's been teaching 'em."
"But no, m'sieu," says Leon. "They have become deceased—utterly."
"Wha-a-a-at?" says I. "Oh, oh, I guess it ain't as bad as that."
"Pardon," says Leon, "but I discover them steef, les pieds dans le ciel. Thus!" And he illustrates by holdin' both hands above his head.
"Perhaps it would be best to investigate," suggests Auntie. "I have no doubt Leon is right. Turkeys require expert care and handling, and when you were so sure of raising them I quite expected something like this."
"Yes, I know you did," says I. "Anyway, let's take a look."
And there they were, all six of 'em, with their feet in the air, and as stiff as if they'd just come from cold storage.
"Like somebody had thrown in a gas attack on 'em," says I. "Good night, turks! You sure did make it unanimous, didn't you?"