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.