The next course was a large plate of potato salad, and then I fainted.

   When I got back Ollie was standing near the table with a sweet smile on each side of her face waiting for the applause of those present.

   "Have you nothing else?" I inquired, hungrily.

   "Oh, yes!" said Ollie. "I have some potato pudding for desert."

   When I got through swearing Ollie was under the stove, my wife was under the table, the dog was under the bed, and I was under the influence of liquor.

   No more vegetarianism in mine.

   Hereafter I am for that lamb chop thing, first, last and always.

   But let's get back to that Thanksgiving dinner.

   My wife invited Mr. and Mrs. William T. Hodge, Joe Coyne and his wife, and their daughter, Cuticura; Mr. and Mrs. Frank Doane, and their son, Communipaw; Mr. and Mrs. Jack Golden, and their niece, Casanova; and Mr. and Mrs. Riley Hatch.

   Charlie Swayne was the referee.

   My wife was so worried about the cook that before dinner time arrived she had an attack of nervous postponement.

   As a matter of fact, we were both in fear and trembling that Ollie would send a tomato salad from the kitchen and before it reached the table it would become a chop suey.

   Anyway, the guests arrived promptly, and I could see from their faces that they would fight that dinner to a finish.

   The ladies began to chat pleasantly while they sized up our furniture out of the corners of their eyes, and the men glanced carelessly around to see if I had a box of cigars which would require their attention after dinner.

   Pretty soon dinner was announced and they all jumped to their feet as though they had stepped on a third rail.

   I believe in being thrifty, but the way some of those people saved up their hunger for our dinner was too penurious for mine.

   I took Mrs. Hodge in and she took in my wife's dress to see if it was made over from last year's.

   Young Communipaw Doane tried hard not to reach the table first, but a plate of 

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