Torchy and Vee Page 6

  CHAPTER VI

  TURKEYS ON THE SIDE

  Say, I hope this Mr. Hoover of ours gets through trying to feed theworld before another fall. It's a cute little idea all right and oughtto get us in strong with a whole lot of people, but if he don't quit Iknow of one party whose reputation as a gentleman farmer is going to bewrecked beyond repair. And that's me.

  I don't know whether it was Vee's auntie that started me out reckless onthis food producin' career, or old Leon Battou, or Mr. G. Basil Pyne.Maybe they all helped, in their own peculiar way. Auntie's method, ofcourse, is by throwin' out the scornful sniff. It was while she waspayin' us a month's visit one week way last summer, out at our four-acreestate on Long Island, that she pulls this sarcastic stuff. Havin'inspected the baby critical without findin' anything special to kickabout, she suggests that she'd like to look over the grounds.

  "Oh, yes, Torchy," chimes in Vee, "do show Auntie your garden."

  Maybe you don't get that "your garden." It's only Vee's way of playin'me as a useful and industrious citizen. Course, I did buy the seeds andall the shiny hoes and rakes and things, and I studied up the cataloguesuntil I could tell the carrots from the cucumbers; but I must admit thatbeyond givin' the different beds the once-over every now and then, andpullin' up a few tomato plants that I thought was weeds, I didn't domuch more than underwrite the enterprise.

  As a matter of fact, it was mostly Leon Battou, the old Frenchy who doesour cookin', that really ran the garden. Say, that old boy would havesomething green growin' if he lived in the subway and had to bring downhis real estate in paper bags. It was partly on his account, you know,that we left our studio apartment and moved out in the forty-fiveminutes commutin' zone. Then, too, there was Joe Cirollo, who comes inby the day to cut the grass and keep the flower beds slicked up, and dothe heavy spadin'. And with Vee keepin' books on what was spent and whatwe got you can guess I wasn't overworked. Also it's a cinch that gardenplot just had to hump itself and make good.

  Auntie ain't wise to all this, though. So she raises her eyebrows andremarks: "A garden? Really! I should like to see it. A few radishes andspindly lettuce, I suppose?"

  "Say, come have a look!" says I.

  And when I'd pointed out the half acre of potatoes, and the long rows ofcorn and string beans and peas--and I hope I called 'em all by theirright names--I sure had the old girl hedgin' some. But trust her!

  "With so much land, though," she goes on, "it seems to me you ought tobe raising your eggs and chickens as well."

  "Oh, we've planned for all that," says I, "ducks and hens and geese andturkeys; maybe pheasants and quail."

  "Quail!" says Auntie. "Why, I didn't know one could raise quail. Ithought they----"

  "When I get started raisin' things," says I, "I'm apt to go the limit."

  "I shall be interested to see what success you have," says she.

  "Sure!" says I. "Drop around again--next fall."

  You wouldn't have thought she'd been disagreeable enough to go andrehearse all this innocent little bluff of mine to Vee, would you? Butshe does, it seems. And of course Vee has to back me up.

  "But, Torchy!" she protests, after Auntie's gone. "How could you tellher such whoppers?"

  "Easiest thing I do," says I. "But who knows what we'll do next in thenourishment producin' line? Hasn't old Leon been beggin' to go into theduck and chicken business for months? With eggs near a dollar a dozenmaybe it would be a good scheme. And if we go in for poultry, why nothave all kinds, turkeys as well?"

  So a few days later I put it up to him. Leon shakes his head. "Thechickens and the ducks, yes; but the turkey----" Here he shrugs hisshoulders desperate. "Je ne connais pas."

  "You jennie what?" says I. "Ah, come, Leon, don't be a quitter."

  He explains that the ways of our national bird are a complete mystery tohim. He'd as soon think of tryin' to hatch out ostriches or canaries. Sofor the time being we pass up the turkeys and splurge heavy on cacklersand quackers. Between him and Joe they fixed up part of the old carriageshed as a poultry barracks and with a mile or so of nettin' they fencedoff a run down to the little pond. And by the middle of August we hadall sorts of music to wake us up for an early breakfast. I nearlylaughed a rib loose watchin' them baby ducks waddle around solemn, everyone with that cut-up look in his eye. Say, they're born comedians, ducksare. I'll bet if you could translate that quack-quack patter of theirsyou'd get lines that would be a reg'lar scream on the big time circuit.

  And then along in the fall we begun gettin' acquainted with our newneighbors that had taken that cute little stucco cottage halfway downto the station from us. The Basil Pynes, a young English couple, wefound out they were. Course, Vee started it by callin' and followin'that up by a donation of some of our garden truck. Pretty soon we wereswappin' visits reg'lar.

  I can't say I was crazy over 'em. She's a little mouse of a woman, bigeyed and quiet, but Vee seems to like her. Pyne, he's a tall, slim ginkwith stooped shoulders and so short sighted that he has to wear extrathick eyeglasses. He'd come over to work for some book publishin' housebut it seems he wrote things himself. He'd landed one book and waspluggin' away on another; not a novel, I understands, but somethingdifferent.

  "Huh!" says I to Vee. "No wonder he had to go into the lit'ry game, withthat monicker hung on him. Basil Pyne! The worst of it is, he looks it,too."

  "Now, Torchy!" protests Vee. "I'm sure you'll find him real interestingwhen you know him better."

  As usual, she's right. Anyway, it turns out that Basil has his goodpoints. For one thing he's the most entertaining listener I ever talkedto. Maybe you know the kind. Never has anything to say about himself butwhatever you start, that's what he wants to know about. And from thefriendly look in the mild gray eyes behind the thick panes, and theearnest way he has of stretchin' his ear you'd think that what you wastellin' him was the very thing he'd been livin' all these years to hear.Then he has that trick of throwin' in "My word!" and "Just fancy that!"sort of admirin' and enthusiastic, until you almost believe that you'rea lot cleverer and smarter than you'd suspected.

  So when I gets on the subject of how we ducked payin' war prices forvegetables to the local profiteers by raisin' our own he wants to knowall about it. With the help of Vee's set of books and a little promptin'from her I gives him an earful. I even tows him down cellar and pointsout the various bins and barrels full of stuff we've got stowed away forwinter. And next I has to drag him out and exhibit the poultry sideline.

  "Oh, I say!" exclaims Basil. "Isn't that perfectly rippin'! You havefresh eggs right along?"

  "All we can use," says I. "And we're eatin' the he--hens whenever wewant 'em. Ducks, too."

  "How clever!" says Basil. "But you Americans are always so good atwhatever you take up. And you such a hard drivin' business man, too! Idon't see how you manage it."

  "Oh, it comes easy enough once you get the hang of it," says I. "As amatter of fact, I'm only just startin' in. Next thing I mean to have isa lot of turkeys. Might as well live high."

  "Turkeys!" says Basil. "And I've heard they were so difficult to raise.But I've no doubt you will make a huge success with them."

  "Guess I'll just have to show you," says I, waggin' my head.

  I was for gettin' some turkey eggs right away and rushin' along a flockso they'd be ready by Christmas, but both Vee and Leon insists that itcan't be done. Seems it's too late in the season or something. They wantto wait until next spring.

  "Not me," says I. "I've promised your Auntie I'd raise turkeys and Igotta deliver the goods. If we can't start 'em from the seed what's thematter with gettin' some sprouts? Ain't anybody got any young turkeysthat need bringin' up scientific?"

  Well, I set Joe Cirollo to scoutin' around and inside of a week he hasconnected with half a dozen. They comes in a crate as big as a piano boxand we turns 'em loose in the chicken yard. When I paid the bill I wassure Joe had been stuck about two prices, but after I've discovered whatthey're askin' for turkeys in the city markets I has to
take it back.

  "Oh, well," says I, "if we can fatten 'em up maybe we'll come outwinners, after all."

  "Sure!" says Joe. "We maka dem biga fat."

  After I'd bought a few bags of feed though, I quit figurin'. I knew thatno matter how they was cooked they'd taste of money. All I was doubtfulof now was whether they was the right breed of turkeys.

  "What's all that red flannel stuff on their necks?" I asks Joe. "Ain'tgot sore throats, have they!"

  "Heem?" says Joe. "No, no. Dey gooda turk. All time data way."

  "All right," says I, "if it's the fashion. I don't eat the neck,anyway."

  I couldn't get Leon at all excited over my gobblers, though. All he'lldo is shake his head dubious. "They walk with such pride and still theybehave so foolish," says he.

  "It ain't their manners I'm fond of," says I, "so much as it is theirwhite meat. Even at that, when it comes to foolish notions, they've gotnothing on your ducks."

  "Mais non," says Leon, meaning nothing sensible, "you do not understandthe duck perhaps. Me, I raised them as a boy in Perronne. But theturkey! Pouff! He is what you call silly in the head. One cannot saywhat they will do next. Anything may happen to such birds."

  He makes such a fuss over the way they hog the grain at feedin' timethat I have to have a separate run built for 'em. You'd almost think hewas jealous. But Joe, on the other hand, treats 'em like pets. I don'tknow how many times a day he feeds 'em, and he's always luggin' one upto me to show how heavy they're gettin'. I was waitin' until they gotinto top notch condition before springin' 'em on Basil Pyne. I meant toget a gasp out of him when I did.

  Finally I set a day for the private view and asked the Pynes to comeover special. Basil, he's all prepared to be thrilled as I tows him out."But you don't mean to say this is your first venture at turkeyraising?" he demands.

  "Ab-so-lutely," says I.

  "Strordinary!" says Basil.

  At the end of the turkey run though I finds Joe starin' through the wirewith a panicky look on his face. "Well, Joe," says I, "anything wrongwith the flock?"

  "I dunno," says he. "Maybe da go bughouse, maybe da got jag on. See!"

  Blamed if it don't look like he'd made two close guesses. Honest, everyone of them gobblers was staggerin' 'round, bumpin' against each otherand runnin' into the fence, with their tails spread and their long neckswavin' absurd. A 3 a.m. bunch of New Year's Eve booze punisherscouldn't have given a more scandalous exhibition.

  "My word!" says Basil.

  Course, it's up to me to produce an explanation. Which I does prompt."Oh, that's nothing!" says I. "They're just tryin' the duck waddle,imitatin' their neighbors in the next run. Turkeys always do that sooneror later if you have ducks near 'em. They keep at it until they'redizzy."

  "Really, now?" says Basil. "I never heard that before."

  "Not many people have," says I. "But they'll get over it in an hour orso. Look in tomorrow and you'll see."

  Basil says he will. And after he's gone I opens the court martial.

  "Joe," I demands, "what you been feedin' them turks?"

  It took five minutes of cross examination before I got him to rememberthat just before breakfast he'd sneaked out and swiped a pail of stuffthat he thought Leon was savin' for his ducks. And what do you guess?Well, him and Leon had gone into the home-made wine business last fall,utilizin' all them grapes we grew out in the back lot, and only the daybefore they'd gone through the process of rackin' it from one barrelinto another. It was the stuff that was left in the bottom that Joe hadswiped for his pets.

  "Huh!" says I. "And now you've not only disgraced those turkeys for lifebut you've made me hand Mr. Pyne some raw nature-fakin' stuff thatnobody but a fool author would swallow."

  "I mucha sorry," says Joe, hangin' his head.

  "All right," says I. "I expect you meant well. But it was a bum hunch.Now see they have plenty of water to drink and by mornin' maybe they'llsober up."

  I meant to keep an eye on 'em myself for the rest of the day, but rightafter luncheon Auntie blows in again, to pay a farewell visit beforestartin' South, and the turkeys slipped my mind. Not until she asks howI'm gettin' on with my flock of quail did I remember.

  "Oh, quail!" says I. "No, I had to ditch that. Couldn't get the rightsort of eggs."

  Auntie smiles sarcastic. "What a pity!" says she. "But the various kindsof poultry you were going in for? Did you----"

  "Did I?" says I. "Say, you just come out and---- Well, Leon, anythingyou want special?"

  "Pardon, m'sieu," says old Leon, scrapin' his foot, "but--but theturkeys."

  "Yes, I know," says I. "They're doing that new trot Joe's been teaching'em."

  "But no, m'sieu," says Leon. "They have become deceased--utterly."

  "Wha-a-a-at?" says I. "Oh, oh, I guess it ain't as bad as that."

  "Pardon," says Leon, "but I discover them steef, les pieds dans le ciel.Thus!" And he illustrates by holdin' both hands above his head.

  "Perhaps it would be best to investigate," suggests Auntie. "I have nodoubt Leon is right. Turkeys require expert care and handling, and whenyou were so sure of raising them I quite expected something like this."

  "Yes, I know you did," says I. "Anyway, let's take a look."

  And there they were, all six of 'em, with their feet in the air, and asstiff as if they'd just come from cold storage.

  "Like somebody had thrown in a gas attack on 'em," says I. "Good night,turks! You sure did make it unanimous, didn't you?"

  I expect my smile was kind of a sickly performance, for the last personI'd have wanted to be in on the obsequies was Auntie. I will say,though, that she don't try to rub it in. No, she tells of similar casesshe's known of when she was a girl, about whole flocks bein' poisoned bysomething they'd found to eat.

  "The only thing to do now," says she, "is to save the feathers."

  "Eh?" says I, gawpin'.

  "The long tail and wing feathers can be used for making fans andtrimming hats," says Auntie, "while the smaller ones are excellent forstuffing pillows. They must be picked at once."

  "Oh, I'm satisfied to call 'em a total loss," says I.

  Auntie wouldn't have it, though. She sends Leon for a big apron and acouple of baskets and has me round up Joe to help. When I left theywere all three busy and the turkey feathers were coming off fast. Allthere was left for me to do was to go in and break the sad news to Vee.

  "As a turkey raiser, I'm a flivver," says I.

  "But I can't see that it's your fault at all," says Vee.

  "Can't you?" says I. "Ask Auntie."

  If the next day hadn't been Sunday, I could have sneaked off to town anddodged the little talk Auntie insists on givin' about the folly ofamateurs tacklin' jobs they know nothing about. As it is I has to stickaround and take the gaff. Then about ten o'clock Basil Pyne has to showup and reopen the subject.

  "Oh, by the way," says he, "how are the turkeys this morning? Are theystill practicing that wonderful duck walk you were telling me about?"

  Auntie has just fixed an accusin' eye on me, and I was wonderin' if itwould be any sin to take Basil out back somewhere and choke him, when inrushes old Leon with a wild look on his face. He's so excited that he'salmost speechless and all he can get out is a throaty gurgle.

  "For the love of soup, let's have it," says I. "What's gone wrong now?"

  "O-o-o la la!" says Leon. "O-o-o la la!"

  "That's right, sing it if you can't say it," says I.

  "Parbleu! Nom de Dieu! Les dindons!" he gasps.

  "Ah, can the ding-dong stuff, Leon," says I, "and let's hear the Englishof it."

  "The--the turkeys!" he pants out.

  And that did get a groan out of me. "Once more!" says I. "Say, have aheart! Can't anybody think of a more cheerful line? Turkeys! Well, shootit. They're still dead, I suppose?"

  "But no," says Leon. "They--they have return to life."

  "Oh come, Leon!" says I. "You must have been sampling some of them winedregs yourself. Do you mean to say-
---"

  "If M'sieu would but go and observe," puts in Leon. "Me, I have seenthem with my eye. Truly they are as in life."

  "Why, after we picked them last night I saw you throw them over thefence," says I.

  "Even so," says Leon. "But come."

  Well, this time we had a full committee--Vee, Auntie, Basil, MadameBattou, old Leon and myself--and we all trails out to the back lot. Andsay, once again Leon is right. There they are, all huddled together onthe lowest branch of a bent-over apple tree and every last one of 'em asshy of feathers as the back of your hand. It's the most indecent poultryexhibit I ever saw.

  "My word!" says Basil, starin' through his thick glasses.

  "That don't half express it, Basil," says I.

  "But--but what happened to them?" he insists.

  "I hate to admit it," says I, "but they had a party yesterday. Uh-huh.Wine dregs. And they got soused to the limit--paralyzed. Then, on theadvice of a turkey expert"--here I glances at Auntie--"we decided thatthey were dead, and we picked 'em to conserve their feathers. Swellidea, eh? Just a little mistake about their being utterly deceased, asLeon put it. They were down, but not out. Look at the poor things now,though."

  And then Vee has to snicker. "Aren't they just too absurd!" says she."See them shiver."

  "I should think they'd be blushin'," says I. "What's the next move?" Iasks Auntie. "Do I put in steam heat for 'em?"

  It takes Auntie a few minutes to recover, but when she does she's rightthere with the bright little scheme. "We must make jackets for them,"says she.

  "Eh?" says I.

  "Certainly," she goes on. "They'll freeze if we don't. And it'sperfectly practical. Of course, I've never seen it done, but I'm surethey'll get along just as well if their feathers were replaced bysomething that will keep them warm."

  "Couldn't get the Red Cross ladies to knit sweaters for 'em, could we?"I suggests.

  Auntie pays no attention to this, but asks Vee if she hasn't some oldflannel shirts, or something of the kind.

  Well, while they're plannin' out the new winter styles of turkeycostumes, Joe and Leon rigs up a wood stove in their coop, shoos theflock in, and proceeds to warm 'em up. They took turns that nightkeeping the fire going, I understand.

  And when I comes home Monday afternoon from the office I ain't evenallowed to say howdy to the youngster until I've been dragged out andintroduced triumphant to the only flock of custom-tailored turkeys inthe country. Auntie and Vee and Madame Battou sure had done a neat jobof costumin', considerin' the fact that they'd had no paper patterns togo by. But somehow they'd doped out a one-piece union suit cut high inthe neck with sort of a knickerbocker effect to the lower end. Mostlythey seemed to have used an old near-silk quilted bathrobe of mine, butI also recognized a khaki army shirt that I had no notion of throwin' inthe discard yet awhile. And if you'll believe it them gobblers wasstruttin' around as chesty as if they hadn't lost a feather.

  "Aren't they just too cute for anything?" demands Vee.

  "Worse than that," says I, "they look almost as human as so manyfloor-walkers. I hope they ain't going to be hard on clothes, for mywardrobe wouldn't stand many such raids."

  "Oh, don't worry about that," says Vee. "We shall be eating one everyweek or so."

  "Then don't let me know when the executions take place," says I. "As forme, I shouldn't feel like tellin' Joe to kill one without an order fromthe High Sheriff of the county."

  And say, if I'm ever buffaloed into buyin' any more live turkeys, I'mgoing to demand a written guarantee that they're Prohibitionists.