“What’ll you have?” said David to Mrs. Cullom, “dark meat? white meat?”

“Anything,” she replied meekly, “I’m not partic’ler.  Most any part of a turkey ’ll taste good, I guess.”

“All right,” said David.  “Don’t care means a little o’ both.  I alwus know what to give Polly—­piece o’ the second jint an’ the last-thing-over-the-fence.  Nice ’n rich fer scraggly folks,” he remarked.  “How fer you, John?—­little o’ both, eh?” and he heaped the plate till our friend begged him to keep something for himself.

“Little too much is jest right,” he asserted.

When David had filled the plates and handed them along—­Sairy was for bringing in and taking out; they did their own helping to vegetables and “passin’”—­he hesitated a moment, and then got out of his chair and started in the direction of the kitchen door.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Bixbee in surprise.  “Where you goin’?”

“Woodshed,” said David.

“Woodshed!” she exclaimed, making as if to rise and follow.

“You set still,” said David.  “Somethin’ I fergot.”

“What on earth!” she exclaimed, with an air of annoyance and bewilderment.  “What do you want in the woodshed?  Can’t you set down an’ let Sairy git it for ye?”

“No,” he asserted with a grin.  “Sairy might sqush it.  It must be putty meller by this time,” And out he went.

“Manners!” ejaculated Mrs. Bixbee.  “You’ll think (to John) we’re reg’ler heathin.”

“I guess not,” said John, smiling and much amused.

Presently Sairy appeared with four tumblers which she distributed, and was followed by David bearing a bottle.  He seated himself and began a struggle to unwire the same with an ice-pick.  Aunt Polly leaned forward with a look of perplexed curiosity.

“What you got there?” she asked.

“Vewve Clikot’s universal an’ suv’rin remedy,” said David, reading the label and bringing the corners of his eye and mouth almost together in a wink to John, “fer toothache, earache, burns, scalds, warts, dispepsy, fallin’ o’ the hair, windgall, ringbone, spavin, disapp’inted affections, an’ pips in hens,” and out came the cork with a “wop,” at which both the ladies, even Mrs. Cullom, jumped and cried out.

“David Harum,” declared his sister with conviction, “I believe thet that’s a bottle of champagne.”

“If it ain’t,” said David, pouring into his tumbler, “I ben swindled out o’ four shillin’,” and he passed the bottle to John, who held it up tentatively, looking at Mrs. Bixbee.

“No, thank ye,” she said with a little toss of the head, “I’m a son o’ temp’rence.  I don’t believe,” she remarked to Mrs. Cullom, “thet that bottle ever cost less ’n a dollar.”  At which remarks David apparently “swallered somethin’ the wrong way,” and for a moment or two was unable to proceed with his dinner.  Aunt Polly looked at him suspiciously.  It was her experience that, in her intercourse with her brother, he often laughed utterly without reason—­so far as she could see.