Page:The American Magazine volume LXIII.djvu/38

 disappointment, young lady, if he doesn't fall into the spirit of the thing."

"Fudge!" exclaimed little Mrs. Wilbur, lightly, "I guess no man can fail to enter into the spirit of a good dinner, no matter on what day it is served to him, and I will have a dinner that will make him wish he did not live in a hotel. I will write to father that we are to have company for dinner and have him send down his best turkey, and what Anna and I can do to one of father's turkeys will surprise Mr. Foster."

So the next day Arthur Wilbur invited Mr. Foster to eat Thanksgiving dinner with them, and Mr. Foster agreed!

Mr. Foster was a genuine New Yorker. He lived in a hotel, and he dressed like a fashion plate. He gave the waiters, always, a good fat tip when he ate, and he expected the best service in return. He was the kind of New Yorker that runs in grooves, in pleasant grooves, but in grooves, and the general impression is that that kind of New Yorker will never willingly get out of his grooves, and that if he does get out he is lost and miserable. He was the kind of New Yorker that you cannot imagine willingly straying above One Hundredth Street. When he agreed to cross the raging East River, and spend a whole afternoon in a suburb, Arthur Wilbur was thoroughly surprised. Mrs. Wilbur was not. She was a young wife and she could not imagine a man who would not rather spend an afternoon in her home than anywhere else, and she accepted his coming as calmly as she would have accepted the coming of any of the other men Arthur had asked. She wrote the letter to her father in Vermont, telling him that she expected to have company for dinner, and asking him to send his best turkey, and she went on with her other preparations just as if Mr. Foster had been a common man, and not Arthur's employer.

Thanksgiving day morning was fine and cold. Mr. Foster was to arrive on the 12.10 train, and Amelia and Anna had everything ready but the turkey by the time the clock struck nine. The turkey had not arrived, but it was on the way. Anna, the servant, was a Polack, and it was unfortunate that she could speak little English. True, she made amends by being able to understand still less, but a sign language, however useful in some cases, is a poor substitute for speech when one tries to tell a third party what a first party has said, when the second party has not understood the first party and the third party cannot understand the second. The expressman had brought the turkey the day before Thanksgiving but Anna had been alone in the house and had no money to pay the express charges, so the man had told her he would come back. Anna tried to tell all this to Mrs. Wilbur by signs, but the attempt was a failure, and Mrs. Wilbur was upset. When it comes to ten o'clock on Thanksgiving day and dinner set for one o'clock and no turkey in the house and none left in the town, it is a matter that would make any housewife nervous.

Mr. Wilbur was on his way to the express office. He had telephoned, and the man had said he did not know whether there was a package for a Mr. Wilbur or not. He said the wagon was out now and that when it returned he would ask the driver. It was Thanksgiving day and the driver was only delivering parcels as a favor. If he happened to get tired before he got them all delivered he would not deliver the rest until the next day. As for the man that was talking, he was just waiting for the driver to come back. He did not belong in the express office. He was the driver's cousin from New Jersey.

When Mr. Wilbur heard this much he slapped up the receiver and told Amelia that he was going to run down to the express office and see if the turkey had come, and if it had not he would telephone her. When he reached the express office he found that the driver had not yet returned, and he telephoned Amelia that he would stay there until he did return, unless Amelia telephoned him that the driver had delivered the turkey at the house. He said that it was all right, for the cousin from New Jersey had let him look over the way-bills and that the turkey had arrived and was now either in the express office or on the wagon somewhere in the town. As soon as the driver returned, if he had not delivered the turkey, he would bring it to the house at once, and that was all he could do, for there was not another turkey in the town. He had stopped at all the places where a turkey might be expected to be purchasable, and there was not one left.

The hands of the clock moved around