“I’ll have that bird shot!” thundered Mr. Richards. “That’s all there is about it.”
“Wait a minute, sir,” pleaded Mrs. Tidd. “Homer’ll get him.”
Dan’l Webster would neither be coaxed nor commanded. He wandered up and down the shelf, gobbling vociferously into the faces of the excited mob.
“Henry, go and get a pistol,” cried Mr. Richards, turning to one of his clerks.
“Homer,”—Mrs. Tidd clutched the boy’s arm,—“why don’t you make b’lieve you’re shootin’ Dan’l? Maybe he’ll lie down, so you can git him.”
Homer called for a broom. He tossed it, gun fashion, across his shoulder, and crept along slowly, sliding a ladder before him to the spot where the turkey stood watching with intent eyes. He put one foot upon the lowest step, then he burst out in a spirited whistle. It was “Marching through Georgia.” The bird stared at him fixedly.
“Bang!” cried Homer, and he pointed the broom straight at the recreant turkey.
Dan’l Webster dropped stiff. A second later Homer had a firm grasp of the scaly legs. Dan’l returned instantly to life, but the rebellious head was tucked under his master’s jacket. Dan’l Webster thought he was being strangled to death.
“There!” cried Homer, triumphantly. He closed the lid of the poultry crate, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “There! I guess you won’t get out again.”
He followed Mr. Richards to the front of the store to view the devastation.