Page:St. Nicholas (serial) (IA stnicholasserial321dodg).pdf/102

68 delighted anticipation went up from the audience. Every paper in town had made a spectacular story of the ruin at Finch & Richards’s. Nothing could have been so splendid a surprise. Everybody broke into applause—everybody except one little woman who sat in the front row of the orchestra, Her face was pale, her hands clasped and unclasped each other tremulously. “Homer, boy,” she whispered to herself.

The curtain rolled up, The stage was set for a realistic farm-yard scene. The floor was scattered with straw, an old pump leaned over in one corner, hay tumbled untidily from a barn-loft, a coop with a hen and chickens stood by the fence. From her stall stared a white-faced cow; her eyes blinked at the glare of the footlights, The orchestra struck up a merry



tune; the cow uttered an astonished mow, then in walked a sturdy lad with fine broad shoulders, red hair, and freckles. His boots clumped, his blue overalls were faded, his sweater had once been red. At his heels stepped six splendid turkeys, straight in line, every one with its eyes on the master. Homer never knew how he did it. Two minutes earlier he had said to