"I shall not come with you," I said, "unless you dress yourself
decently and leave the basket behind. I hate walking about with
people who carry baskets."
"I don't," he said, "so you shall carry it."
"May I ask if you wish to lug the turkey about London?" I inquired.
"I don't wish to," he replied, "but the wife----"
I cut him short. "In that case you have no choice. Did she also
insist on the fur coat?"
"That was my own idea," he replied proudly. "I have had it for two
years, and only worn it once."
"What happened?"
"Nothing. It was in my room in front of the looking-glass."
"People will think I am your dresser," I objected.
"They will respect you as an artist," he replied.
"We won't argue the point," I said. "Wait till dinner-time; then you
will be sorry you insulted me."
We arrived at Waterloo at a quarter to five, by which time Pitman had
reached a state of intense irritation. The carriage had been full
the whole way, and its other occupants had done little but cast
furtive glances of admiration and envy at his coat.
"Thank Heaven we're out of that," he muttered, as he stepped on to
the platform. "Gaping set of idiots!"
"It's nothing to what you're going through," I replied encouragingly.
"I warned you before we started. What's the programme now?"
"Short's first," he said, "and then the turkey. I can't do it in
cold blood."
We found a cab and drove across Waterloo Bridge, pulling up at Mr.
Short's eminent tavern. Pitman said his nerves were out of order,
and suggested champagne. I hate arguing.
"That's something rather hot in the way of coats," said the barmaid
pleasantly, as she snipped the wire.
Pitman was positively rude.
"You must excuse my friend," I put in, trying to smooth matters down.
"We are just going to pawn it, and he is rather sensitive on the
subject."
She smiled complacently. "I wish you meant it," she said, and with
this cryptic remark she left us to attend to another gentleman.
Pitman turned to me.
"Look here," he began warmly, "I'm not going to be made a target for
your silly wit."
"It was the best I could think of," I protested.
He drank up the champagne, and became a little more cheerful.
"Those people in the train upset me," he explained. "Come along;
we'll go and buy the turkey now."
"Where?"
"Smithfield Market."
"You ought to make a hit there," I said hopefully.
He glanced down at the coat with a nervous hunted sort of expression.
"I wish I hadn't brought the thing," he muttered.
"Wait till we get to Smithfield," I returned, "you'll wish it much
more then. They're a nice, genial, outspoken set of people at
Smithfield."
As a matter of fact, our reception was distinctly disappointing. But
for a few encouraging cries such as: "Yar! Look at the bloomin'
millionaire!" "When did yer git it aht, guv'nor?" "Chuck us a quid,
Rothschild!" our entrance into the market passed off without any
special demonstration.
Pitman was distinctly hard to please. We wandered about from stall
to stall, and at last drew up opposite one where a large gentleman
with a face like a blood orange was vociferously presiding.
"'Ere y'are, sir," he called out. "The finest birds in London."
Then, glancing at my friend's coat, "Nothing but the best for you,
sir. 'Ere's the werry thing." And he held out the most magnificent
turkey I have ever seen in my life.
Pitman, who is a bit of an artist, was at once taken with its
beautiful plumage.
"That's a lovely bird," he exclaimed, turning to me.
"Better ask a few questions," I suggested in a whisper, "or he'll
take you for a mug and overcharge you."
Pitman turned to the salesman. "How old is it?" he demanded
suspiciously.
"I ain't got 'is birf stifficut," replied the latter affably; "but 'e
ain't come of age yet."
"Where was it brought up?" pursued Pitman.
The fat man preserved his composure.
"Hoxford College," he replied, winking at me.
"Is it an early riser?" I inquired.
"Shut up, Victor," said Pitman. "How much?" he asked, addressing the
salesman.
"Let yer 'ave it for thirty bob, sir. Twenty pahnd turkey for thirty
bob!"
"Right you are," said Pitman, handing across the basket. "Put it in
here."
"Now we'll go and have another bottle of fizz," I remarked, as we
turned away from the stall.
Pitman nodded his head. "The cold weather makes one frightfully
thirsty, doesn't it?"
"Nearly as bad as the hot," I agreed.
"We must be careful not to have too much," said Pitman.
"Drinking," I observed, as I led the way into a cheerful-looking
tavern, "is no longer a mere physical indulgence. By legislation we
have turned it into an art."
"And the policemen are the critics," added Pitman.