“Ovide!” I called, faintly.

When he saw me, a pleased, triumphant look lit up his face.

“Do you want to burn down the car?” I asked, shortly, when I got him into the passage.

“Oh, no fear for dat,” he answered in a somewhat patronizing tone.  “You know,” he went on, good-naturedly, “big turkey can’t be cook if not have pretty good fire.  But I’ll open de window and den de fire she’ll all go out.  For me, you know I’m not mind de heat, for I’m used to dat when I fire de engine.”

“But surely, Ovide, you will burn the turkey all up,” I insisted, in a milder tone—­for, as I have already stated, I was in no wise an authority on cooking, and from the patronizing way in which he spoke, I began to feel that I had been interfering unnecessarily.

“Well,” he replied ponderingly, “p’rhaps she do a little too quick, and I’ll tak her out; aldo she’s only be in a few minute.”

As I glanced at his flour-bedecked arms, he said, “Oh, yes, I’m find de raisin, and de curran, and de peel, and lots powder, dat makes de flour come big, and I’m mix dem all together when you come in, and we going to have fine Creesmis puddin’ sure.  It’s too bad, do, dat I find a hole she’s born in de bottom of de sospan, so dat I must put de puddin’ in de kettle, which has not got big mouth; but she’s pretty big around de middle, so I suppose de puddin’ she’s cook just as well dare.”

I was too bewildered by all this detail to pay much attention to what he was saying about the smallness of the kettle’s mouth; but I remembered it vividly afterwards.

Nodding gaily to me, he hurried back to the oven, from which the blue odorous smoke was still pouring.  I lingered long enough to see him take the turkey out of it, stand it on the shelf in the corner, and then open the window.

As I passed Robbins, he let his paper flutter to his knee, and said, meaningly:  “I hope yon chap, sir, don’t think he’s still firing on the engine.”

As I smilingly shook my head and passed on, a presentiment of approaching disaster took possession of me—­so that the recollection of the speaker’s prophecies of evil regarding our cook did not come back with that keen sense of humor one would have expected.

When I reached Fielding’s side, he said anxiously, “I hope he is getting along all right, William.”  As I noted his anxiety, and the hungry expression of his face, I answered with a glibness which I was far from feeling, that things were getting along swimmingly.  I was now beginning to feel such a weight of responsibility in the success of the dinner that I sincerely wished I had not taken such an active interest in the appointment of the cook.

About an hour later, when we ceased our game, I noticed the odor of roast turkey was no longer prevalent; so with apprehensive heart, though nonchalant air, I made my way over to the kitchen again, and was just in time to see Ovide snatch the turkey—­which now looked cold and forlorn enough—­from the shelf and shove it into the still fervent oven, and to hear him mutter, “Dat’s too bad I’m forgot to put you back for so long.”