“Man, dear,” she had said earnestly, “an’ why would ye be shpoiling the appetoites of yer company with soup?  Tis soup they know only too well—­but the turrkey!  ’Tis manny a long year since Mrs. Murdison and Andy have tasted the loike of it, an’ the same with the ithers.  If ’twas chickun, I’ll warrant now—­we’re all glad to make a bit of chickun go furrther with other things—­but a grreat turrkey like this wan—­Give it to thim sthrait, Misther Brown, an’ that’s my advoice.  Ye can take it or lave it.”

Brown had accepted this wise counsel, of course, and now saw the full wisdom of it as he beheld the looks of veiled but hungry—­one might almost have said starving—­anticipation which fell upon the big turkey as it was borne to its place at the end of the table.  “I don’t know how an old bachelor is going to make out to carve before such a company,” Brown said gaily, brandishing his carving knife. (This was a bit of play-making, for he was a famous carver, having been something of an epicure in days but one year past, and accustomed to demand and receive careful service in his bachelor establishment.) “I wonder if I can manage it.  Mr. Benson”—­he addressed the old watchmaker—­“what do you say to taking my place and helping me out?  I’d hate to ruin the bird.”

“I say I’ll not do it, Mr. Brown,” responded old Benson.  “Watch-making is my business, and it’s watch I’ll make now of your carving.”

This brave attempt at a witticism brought a fine response, Brown’s hearty laugh leading off.  And now the ice began to be broken into smaller and smaller bits.  Brown’s gay spirits, his mirth-provoking observations as he carved the tender fowl, the way in which he appreciated the efforts of his guests to do their part, led them all to forget themselves in greater or less degree.  When it came to the actual attacking of the piled-up plates before them, it is true that there ensued considerable significant silence, but it was the silence of approval and enjoyment, not that of failure to be entertained.

If it occurred to Brown to wish himself at some more exalted festival-making with more congenial associates on this Thanksgiving Day, no one would have dreamed it.  To all appearances he was with his best friends, and if he did not partake of the toothsome meal before him with such avidity as they, it would have needed a more discerning person to have recognized it than any one who sat at his board—­at his boards, it might be put, remembering Tim Lukens’s achievement with the sawhorses.

Tim, himself, was present, sober and subdued but happy.  How it came about that he had not drunk a drop for several weeks, none but Brown and Mrs. Lukens could have told.  Tim’s glance was often upon Brown’s face—­the look in his eyes, now and then, reminded Brown of that in the eyes of his dog Bim when he had earned his master’s approval, shy but adoring.