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. The Later Edition George Barton pushed open the swinging doors, and came into the bank. Several people were standing at the counter--a couple of tradesmen, an old lady, an errand boy--while the cashier, an elderly, harassed-looking man, was counting over a large heap of silver, which one of the former had just paid in. He looked up as Barton entered, and nodded in the direction of the other customers. Barton lifted the slab that led through into the office, and walking up to a side door with a frosted-glass panel, opened it, and hung up his hat upon a peg inside. Then he came to the counter, and began to attend to the people who were waiting. His work was characterized by a mechanical swiftness noticeably absent in the movements of his elderly _confrère_; so by the time that the latter had satisfied himself that the pile of silver in front of him corresponded with the amount on the slip, Barton had settled the requirements of the remaining customers. The cashier made an entry in his "scroll," filled the credit slip, and then, after carefully wiping his pen and laying it on the desk, turned to Barton. "I am going to lunch now," he said. "If you have time, you might put a few of these entries through"--he pointed to a twisted-up heap of cheques and credit slips under a paper-weight. "We have been rather busy while you were out," he added. "All right," answered Barton, without looking up from the book in which he was writing.