I had just finished breakfast, and was slowly enjoying an especially fragrant pipe, when my front-door bell rang with some violence.
"This is undoubtedly Pitman," I said to myself.
It was. He came in stamping the snow off his boots on to my new carpet.
"Sit down," I said harshly. He seated himself obediently, and tearing off the front page of the News and Leader, which had been left at my house by mistake, I handed it across to him.
"Put your feet on that," I said, "if they'll go on, and don't move until they are properly thawed, and whatever you do, don't remark it's seasonable weather."
He followed my instructions meekly.
Pitman is a great friend of mine. We live in the same village, and he is a local architect. At least, that is what he calls himself. Some of his clients call him other things. He is also married.
I am rather frightened of Mrs. Pitman, for she is under the impression that I exercise an evil influence over her husband. She told another lady in confidence, who repeated it to me, that "no man would live in a country village by himself unless he had something to hide."
I tossed my tobacco pouch across the table.
"Light a pipe and explain yourself," I said.
"I thought you would be in bed and asleep," he began. "You're getting into vicious habits living alone. When an unmarried man takes to breakfasting at nine o'clock it's a bad sign—shows he can't sleep."
"Pitman," I said pathetically, "you have not come out half a mile on a snowy morning to try and be funny. Out with it."
"Have you got any whisky?" he inquired.
"I thought there was some good reason. There it is behind you. Aren't you allowed to have it at home?"
"Not before lunch, and quite right, too; but that isn't the real reason why I came."
"Have a cigar?" I suggested.
"No," he replied. "I came to give you some information. You are coming up to town with me by the four o'clock train."
"What are we going for?" I inquired.
"We are going to buy a turkey," he said quietly.
I looked at him in amazement. "Going to buy a turkey! Why, you can get a much better one here."
He smiled. "Much better, but my wife thinks otherwise. You see, she was brought up in London, and she is still under the impression that you can get nothing fit to eat outside. She made up her mind long ago to buy the Christmas turkey in town, and she was going up to-day to choose one. However, this morning the infant suddenly developed a pain in its tummy, and she decided she couldn't leave it. So I volunteered, and was accepted."
"And you want an expert opinion?"
"Not at all. I know a turkey when I see one all right. I want your society. We'll dine somewhere and do a music-hall and come back by the last train."
"But I never heard such nonsense," I objected. "Trotting all round London to buy a turkey! It's ridiculous."
"Naturally," said Pitman calmly, "or my wife wouldn't have suggested it."
"I will think it over," I said.
Pitman took out his watch. "I shall call for you at three-thirty. That will give you six hours to get ready."
"I dislike being hurried," I said irritably.
"We shall dine at the Piccadilly," he went on, "and I shall pay for dinner."
"That settles it. If you had said so sooner we should have been saved all this superfluous conversation."
Pitman got up slowly and walked towards the door.
"You will take particular notice," he observed, "that I said dinner. There was no mention of drinks."
"I was hoping it was an oversight."
He shook his head. "I am fond of you, Victor, but I have a sense of duty towards my family."
Then, as Mr. Hall Caine would say, he went out into the snow.
He turned up again at a quarter to four in a fur coat, with a large basket in his hand.
I looked at him in stern disapproval.
"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.
I looked at him approvingly, and ordered another bottle of "Mumm."
All the better side of Pitman's nature steals out under the influence of champagne. As a rule, he is inclined to be taciturn and a trifle selfish. Touched by the garment of Bacchus, rare and unexpected qualities develop with amazing rapidity. In the present instance he became almost morbidly tender-hearted.
"We'll take a four-wheeler to the Piccadilly," he said, finishing his glass.
"Why not a taxi?" I inquired.
He shook his head mournfully. "Don't want to jog the turkey."
"Nonsense," I objected.
"It's not nonsense," he retorted. "How would you like to be shut up in a bag?"
It was obviously no use arguing, so I gave in. Going outside, we summoned a seedy-looking growler and plodded off towards the restaurant. Pitman took the turkey out of the bag and placed it on the seat opposite us.
"Beautiful bird," he said thoughtfully.
"Magnificent," I agreed.
Then he lay back and went to sleep.
I woke him up when the cab stopped. "Come along," I said; "here we are. You sling on to the turkey. I'll pay the man."
I followed him into the hall, and found him standing there with the basket under one arm and the turkey under the other.
"Put those things in the cloak-room," I whispered hurriedly. "Everyone is laughing at you."
"Let 'em laugh," he replied, looking round defiantly. "You 'member what Sol-Solomon says about thorns under a pot. The turkey's coming in to dinner with me."
"Pitman," I said, "I'm ashamed of you."
He walked up to the cloak-room, and deposited his coat, hat, and stick. Then he put the turkey into the basket.
"Shall I take that, sir?" inquired the attendant.
"No," said Pitman haughtily; "leave him alone."
"That will be all right," I interposed, giving the man a shilling. I was curious to see what would happen.
Pitman marched downstairs to the grill-room, carrying the basket. The place was crowded.
"I want a table for three," he said to the waiter.
The latter looked at him curiously.
"Shall I take that outside, sir?"
Pitman drew himself up. "Don't you dare to touch him."
We were beginning to attract attention, so I settled the matter by leading the way across the room to the further corner, where there was an empty table. We sat down, and, taking the turkey out of the basket, Pitman proceeded to prop it up in the vacant chair, to the intense interest and joy of the people at the surrounding tables. The waiter whose duty it was to attend to us entered into the spirit of the joke, his sense of humour being probably quickened by a prophetic instinct with regard to our financial value.
"Dinner for three, sir?" he inquired.
Pitman examined the menu with some deliberation, and settled upon a satisfactory little programme. He is acquainted with my weaknesses.
"My other friend," he said, pointing to the turkey, "will begin with a little thick soup."
At this point the manager of the restaurant arrived.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I'm afraid I must request you to remove that bird," he began in a firm but apologetic tone. "The other ladies and gentlemen, you know, sir——"
This put Pitman on his dignity.
"If they object to my friends I will leave the restaurant," he replied.
A genial-looking man at the next table here joined in the conversation.
"I for one," he said, "am delighted to be in such interesting society."
"You hear that!" cried Pitman triumphantly. "Go away, manager. No, stop a minute; have a drink?"
The manager shook his head. "Thank you very much, sir; but I'm afraid it would be against my rules. Of course, if the other guests don't object to the bird I have nothing further to say." He shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
I shall never forget that dinner. Under the influence of a third bottle of champagne Pitman became magnificent. His brilliant conversation was distributed impartially between me and the turkey and the people at the neighbouring tables, all of whom were intensely sympathetic. It would be useless to attempt to describe it, and to tell the truth, I myself have a very imperfect idea as to what actually occurred. I distinctly remember, however, that about nine o'clock I suggested the Hippodrome.
At first Pitman was obstinate. He declared that it was not a nice place to take the turkey to, but after a good deal of persuasion I managed to overcome his scruples, and amidst a chorus of good wishes we left the restaurant.
By the aid of a taxi we arrived at the Hippodrome without difficulty. I took the turkey, and sent Pitman to buy the tickets. He returned just as I was trying to smuggle the bird into the cloak-room.
"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded indignantly. "I've got a stall for him."
"A stall!" I echoed.
"Yes, a stall. Don't be selfish."
I gave it up, and followed him meekly into the hall.
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.