He did not see me until he had closed the oven door, and then he said, joyously, pointing to the kettle:  “De puddin’ she’s in dare, and she’s nearly all done now, and in fifteen or twenty minute more de dinner she’s all be ready.”

I suppose if I had not seen the bird’s entrance into the oven for the second time, the announcement of the early approach of the festivities would have allayed some of my apprehensions, and perhaps have afforded me a little of the satisfaction Fielding and the conductor experienced when they heard the news.  The effect of the tidings upon old Robbins, however, was tantalizing in the extreme.  He threw his paper to one side, rested his elbows on his knees, and holding up his grizzly chin with his hands, began softly to whistle a monotonous, soul-disturbing air.

Ovide was true to his word, for scarcely had the twenty minutes elapsed, when in he bustled, pulled the table into the centre of the car, set it fairly well, after a number of amusing blunders, and then drawing up the chairs, said, with great gusto:  “Now, Messieurs, I’m go and get de dinner.”

As we seated ourselves, Fielding said, with a satisfaction that comes back to me vividly as I pen these words:  “Well, William, I am glad it is ready; I never remember being so hungry.”  The kindly look which he bestowed on Ovide as he came in with the smoking turkey will also never be difficult to conjure up.  But the moment my eyes fell upon that unfortunate bird, my heart began to beat with renewed apprehensions.  Never before had I seen such an ill-favored, uninviting-looking fowl placed upon a table; its naturally white, smooth skin was now as seamy, black and arid-looking as the mouth of an ancient crater.

Covertly I glanced at Fielding to see what effect this steaming, yet mummified-looking object had upon him.  My worst fears were verified:  the complacent expression had fled, and was succeeded by a look in which consternation, anger and amazement were all blended.

The short, trying silence was broken by a rasping cough from Robbins, and then Fielding said, in a constrained tone, as he whetted his knife:  “Well, this animal looks as though it had been through the fiery furnace created by Nebuchadnezzar for the undoing of the three Israelites.”

Ovide, who was standing complacently behind Fielding’s chair, not understanding the allusion, and thinking that he was called upon to say something, said brightly, “Oh, yes, sir, dat turkey is de finest turkey I never see.”

Now, I had known Fielding, on numerous occasions, to laugh heartily at a much less amusing blunder, but on this occasion I sought his usually expressive face in vain for even the ghost of a smile.  To add to my annoyance and the constraint of the situation, old Robbins found it necessary to again loudly clear his troublesome throat.