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.