Now, as I knew the old driver heartily disliked his little fireman—­whom he always dubbed an intruding foreigner—­and had more than once reported him to me on the ground of incompetency, I concluded his remarks were not wholly disinterested, and was about to reprove him, when Ovide, with much heartiness, replied:  “Dat’s not your bizness to ax me question lak dat; I’m not on de engine now.”  He then raised his shoulders commiseratingly and continued:  “You not be ’fraid, Monsieur Robbin; for when I rost dat turkey and boil dat puddin’ you will find her so good dat you will eat more dan de odders.”

The dogged old driver was now too angry to be influenced by our amused smiles, and turning contemptuously away from Ovide, he looked to us to press his demand for our cook’s credentials.

“Oh, I am sure, Robbins, he will cook the dinner all right.  And then you know,” I added reprovingly, “this is Christmas Day, and there should be no hard feeling among us.”

My reply only the more incensed our doughty old engineer.  He pointed prophetically at the now thoroughly defiant Ovide, and said, “I suppose I’m interfering; but, mark my words, that foreigner there’ll make you before the day’s out forget all about that motto of peace and good-will.”  His prophetic arm fell to his side, and he seated himself in a position from which he could command a good view of the little kitchen at the end of the passage, where his watchful eyes never failed to fasten on Ovide as he swaggered about, arrayed in our regular cook’s long, white apron.

For the next two hours I thought very little of Ovide, my attention being occupied by a game in which Fielding, the conductor and I were engaged.

Suddenly Fielding exclaimed, “Gracious, William, but this car is hot!” I myself had been uncomfortably warm for some time, and had been dimly conscious, too, of the conductor frequently wiping his face, and casting anxious glances in the direction of the kitchen, whence came blasts of hot air heavily laden with the appetizing odor of roast turkey.

Involuntarily I glanced over at Robbins, who was still on guard, although pretending to read a newspaper, and as I caught the grim look of satisfaction on his profile, doubts as to the ability of our new cook for the first time stole over me, and I made my way out to the kitchen.

The moment I opened the door, and stepped into Ovide’s new sanctum, I thought the last great day of conflagration had surely come, and that the elements were melting with fervent heat.  Never before had I experienced such withering heat and choking smoke as proceeded from that little range, nor such dense vapor as came from the mouth of the boisterous kettle upon it—­many a locomotive would have been proud to spout forth such a body of steam!

Finally my half-blinded eyes found out Ovide, who looked truly like an emissary of the evil one among it all, as he stood with his wet scarlet face, his feet buried in turkey feathers, and his arms up to the elbows in a bowl of flour.