With divers sincere regrets, the conductor protested that he had not the slightest knowledge of this housewifely accomplishment.  But old Joe Robbins, the driver, a sterling, dogged Yorkshire man, and one of our oldest employes to whose speech still clung a goodly smattering of the Yorkshire dialect, raised Fielding’s sinking hopes by saying that although he did not know how to roast, he was pretty well posted in the art of frying.  He further explained, and this time to the gratification of us all, that he had in a box, on the tender of the engine, a ten-pound turkey that he had bought up the line to take home for Christmas, and which we were quite welcome to.  The only drawback to the bird was that it was frozen as hard as a rock, and would probably take a lot of thawing out.  If we wished, however, he would do his best to thaw it and give us fried turkey for dinner.

Fielding, after declaring that he would not forget to give the man who acted as cook that day a souvenir when he got back to town, was just about to accept the kind offer, when Ovide Tetreault, the French-Canadian fireman, a dark-skinned, comical-looking little fellow, pushed past Robbins, and said eagerly to Fielding and myself, in amusing broken English:  “Messieurs, I’m know how for mak de rost turkey, and rost turkey she’s goodder dan de fry turkey.  And I’m know, too, how for mak—­how for mak—­” He rubbed his pointed little chin vigorously to jog his laggard memory, and then continued, triumphantly:  “Ah, oui! ah, oui! how for mak what de Anglish call de Creesmis plum-puddin’, and if you lak I will do de cookin’ for you.”

Turning to me, Fielding said in a low voice:  “Do you really think that queer-looking specimen knows more about cooking than old Robbins?  Would it be safe to let him try and roast the turkey?  It would never do to have it spoiled, you know.”

Now, from the eager manner in which the little chap had spoken, he impressed me, in spite of his insignificant appearance, with being less commonplace than he looked, and believing that our dinner, under his generalship, would be a much better one than old Robbins would be likely to provide, I strongly urged Fielding to bestow the commission of cook upon my favorite.  “What possible reason can he have for saying he can roast turkeys and boil plum-puddings if he cannot?” I urged as a clincher.  Of course he had no good argument to meet such a question, and so, turning to Ovide, he said:  “All right, my good fellow, go ahead, and give us roast turkey and plum-pudding.  I am glad that after all we shall not be without a Christmas dinner.”

During this conference Robbins had been eyeing his fireman with growing disfavor, and as Fielding ceased, he strode suddenly up to Ovide and said to him with ill-suppressed wrath:  “Before thou begins thy duties as cook, it is only right that thou shouldst say how thou larned to cook, and just how much thou knows about it.  For my part, I believe thou knows nought about it; I know thee and thy foolish way of thinking that thou canst do anything thou hast seen anyone else do.”