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."