"Where?"
"Smithfield Market."
"You ought to make a hit there," I said hopefully.
He glanced down at the coat with a nervous hunted sort of expression. "I wish I hadn't brought the thing," he muttered.
"Wait till we get to Smithfield," I returned, "you'll wish it much more then. They're a nice, genial, outspoken set of people at Smithfield."
As a matter of fact, our reception was distinctly disappointing. But for a few encouraging cries such as: "Yar! Look at the bloomin' millionaire!" "When did yer git it aht, guv'nor?" "Chuck us a quid, Rothschild!" our entrance into the market passed off without any special demonstration.
Pitman was distinctly hard to please. We wandered about from stall to stall, and at last drew up opposite one where a large gentleman with a face like a blood orange was vociferously presiding.
"'Ere y'are, sir," he called out. "The finest birds in London." Then, glancing at my friend's coat, "Nothing but the best for you, sir. 'Ere's the werry thing." And he held out the most magnificent turkey I have ever seen in my life.
Pitman, who is a bit of an artist, was at once taken with its beautiful plumage.
"That's a lovely bird," he exclaimed, turning to me.