I have a curiously indistinct recollection of what occurred
subsequently. I remember being remonstrated with by a large
gentleman in uniform to whom Pitman explained the situation with some
emotion.
"Constable," he said; "it's all right, constable. Promised my wife
not to let the bird out of my sight. Got a stall for him--he won't
make any noise. Well-behaved bird, sergeant; brought up at Oxford.
That's all right, off'cer."
Whether it was this lucid explanation, or the half-crown with which
he substantiated it, that brought the attendant to reason I do not
know, but without any more opposition we took our seats triumphantly
in the centre of the front row.
It was a cheerful, Christmassy sort of audience, and the turkey made
an instantaneous hit. Indeed, it attracted far more attention than
the performance. Pitman insisted on buying it a whisky-and-soda, and
got quite angry when it refused to drink. It sat up rakishly with a
cigar in its claw, while he talked to it seriously about the sin of
ingratitude. At last one of the performers refused to go on unless
we were removed.
With an injured air, Pitman tucked the turkey under his arm, and we
left the house amidst ringing cheers from the gallery.
By this time it was nearly ten o'clock, and as our last train left
London at ten-thirty, we drove off to Waterloo without any further
delay. When we arrived at the station Pitman insisted on buying
three tickets. He declared, with tears in his eyes, that nothing
would induce him to cheat the railway company; I suggested that he
might put the turkey back into the basket, but he shook his head.
"Promisht the wife not to squash it," he said thickly. "Wouldn't
have me break my promish?"
"No," I replied sadly. "Get in."
We entered the carriage, and Pitman sat the turkey up in the further
corner. Then we both went to sleep.
I woke with a start just as the train was beginning to throb its way
out of the station. Glancing carelessly through the window, I saw,
to my amazement, that we had arrived at our destination. I flung
open the door and dug Pitman in the ribs.
"Come along," I yelled. "Here we are!"
He scrambled out after me on to the platform, and the train glided
away into the darkness.
We were both of us rather upset, and Pitman decided that he would
come to my house and have a brandy-and-soda before going home.
"Nothing like brandy-and-soda for a nervous shock," he said gravely.
I felt a little doubtful about the brandy, but he seemed so certain
that I gave way, and we trudged up together to the cottage. I
lighted the lamp in my little dining-room, and poured out a couple of
drinks.
"Pitman," I said, "we've had a ripping day."
"Ripping," he repeated.
I raised my glass. "Here's luck," I said, "and long life to the
turkey."
With a cry of horror Pitman dropped his tumbler and collapsed into a
chair.
* * * * * * *
Then the hideous truth dawned upon me.
We had left the turkey in the train.