“Well, young man,” he cried, “I’ve had enough of your pesky bird show. There’s a hundred dollars’ worth of provisions gone, to say nothing of the trade we are turning away. Two days before Thanksgiving, of all times in the year!”
“Good land!” whispered Mrs. Tidd. Her eyes were wandering about the store. It was scattered from one end to the other with wasted food. Sticky rivers trickled here and there across the floor. A small army of clerks was hard at work sweeping and mopping.
“Where’s my turkeys?” asked Homer.
“Your turkeys, confound them!” snarled Mr. Richards. “They’re safe and sound in their crate in my back store, all but that blasted old gobbler you call Dan’l Webster. He’s doing his stunts on a top shelf. We found him there tearing cereal packages into shreds. For mercy’s sake, go and see if you can’t get him down. He has almost pecked the eyes out of every clerk who has tried to lay a finger on him. I’d like to wring his ugly neck.”
Mr. Richard’s face grew red as the comb of Dan’l Webster himself.
Homer and his mother dashed across the store. High above their heads strutted Dan’l Webster with a slow, stately tread. Occasionally he peered down at the ruin and confusion below, commenting upon it with a lordly, satisfied gobble.
“Dan’l Webster,” called Homer, coaxingly, “good old Dan’l, come an’ see me.”
The boy slipped cautiously along to where a step-ladder stood.
“Dan’l,” he called persuasively, “wouldn’t you like to come home, Dan’l?”
Dan’l perked down with pleased recognition in his eyes. Homer crept up the ladder. He was preparing to lay a hand on one of Dan’l’s black legs when the turkey hopped away with a triumphant gobble, and went racing gleefully along the wide shelf. A row of bottles filled with salad-dressing stood in Dan’l’s path. He cleared them out of the way with one energetic kick. They tumbled to a lower shelf; their yellow contents crept in a sluggish stream toward the mouth of a tea-box.