With a wrench of his chair he arose.
"Patricia!" he said stormily, "did I not say that nothing of his--did I
not--" he paused and gulped. "Uncle Noah," he added unsteadily, "that
turkey of yours is gobbling like a fiend under the window; you--he--"
The Colonel stopped abruptly, reddened as his eyes fell upon the negro
(Uncle Noah had wisely turned away), and sternly reseated himself,
somewhat confused by his thoughtless reference to the late lamented Job,
Uncle Noah hobbled from the room, his brown face working convulsively.
In the kitchen he shook with silent laughter, doubling over
breathlessly and clasping his hands over his stomach in aching distress.
"And what, Uncle Noah," asked the Colonel kindly as the old negro
presently re-entered the dining-room, "have we for our Christmas
breakfast?"
"Well, sah," Uncle Noah began fluently, "we has grapefruit, cereal wif
cream, quail on toast, fried oysters--er--oatmeal, hot muffins, fried
chicken, co'nbread an' coffee!"
The Colonel, appearing to be thoughtfully considering his choice,
replied as usual: "It all sounds delicious, Uncle Noah, but I have a
touch of my old enemy dyspepsia to-day.
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