Paul examined the tickets stuck on the turkeys—$2.20, $3.50, $2.40, $4.00 (he was a perfect giant of a gobbler!) and so on. Paul felt a lump in his throat, he was so disappointed! Then little Kate made it worse by pointing to the very biggest and saying, “Oh, Paul, buy that!—it’s the best of all!”
Paul whispered to her, “It costs four dollars. Isn’t that awful? The cheapest one is two dollars! What can we do?”
Kate shook her head. Then she had a bright idea.
“I know!” she said. “If we can’t have the biggest, let’s get the very littlest that ever was! It will be cunning, and that will make mamma laugh.”
“But I don’t see any very little ones,” Paul replied.
“Ask the man,” Kate urged.
It was some time before Paul could get the man’s attention, and then the question was put.
“The littlest turkey?” repeated the marketman, with a grin. “That’s a queer order, now. Why do you want the littlest one, my boy?”
“’Cause we’re buying it for mamma,” said Kate eagerly. “She can’t get one at all, because papa’s gone away, and he may not come back, and we got the money out of our banks, and we’ve only one dollar and fifteen cents, and we can’t have the biggest, you see.”
“Hello!” said the marketman, “here’s a talker for a little one! Haven’t I seen you before?”