"Short's first," he said, "and then the turkey. I can't do it in cold blood."
We found a cab and drove across Waterloo Bridge, pulling up at Mr. Short's eminent tavern. Pitman said his nerves were out of order, and suggested champagne. I hate arguing.
"That's something rather hot in the way of coats," said the barmaid pleasantly, as she snipped the wire.
Pitman was positively rude.
"You must excuse my friend," I put in, trying to smooth matters down. "We are just going to pawn it, and he is rather sensitive on the subject."
She smiled complacently. "I wish you meant it," she said, and with this cryptic remark she left us to attend to another gentleman. Pitman turned to me.
"Look here," he began warmly, "I'm not going to be made a target for your silly wit."
"It was the best I could think of," I protested.
He drank up the champagne, and became a little more cheerful.
"Those people in the train upset me," he explained. "Come along; we'll go and buy the turkey now."