t day a souvenir when he got back to town, was just
about to accept the kind offer, when Ovide Tetreault, the
French-Canadian fireman, a dark-skinned, comical-looking little
fellow, pushed past Robbins, and said eagerly to Fielding and myself,
in amusing broken English: "Messieurs, I'm know how for mak de rost
turkey, and rost turkey she's goodder dan de fry turkey. And I'm know,
too, how for mak--how for mak--" He rubbed his pointed little chin
vigorously to jog his laggard memory, and then continued,
triumphantly: "_Ah, oui! ah, oui!_ how for mak what de Anglish call de
Creesmis plum-puddin', and if you lak I will do de cookin' for you."

Turning to me, Fielding said in a low voice: "Do you really think that
queer-looking specimen knows more about cooking than old Robbins?
Would it be safe to let him try and roast the turkey? It would never
do to have it spoiled, you know."

Now, from the eager manner in which the little chap had spoken, he
impressed me, in spite of his insignificant appearance, with being
less commonplace than he looked, and believing that our dinner, under
his generalship, would be a much better one than old Robbins would be
likely to provide, I strongly urged Fielding to bestow the commission
of cook upon my favorite. "What possible reason can he have for
saying he can roast turkeys and boil plum-puddings if he cannot?" I
urged as a clincher. Of course he had no good argument to meet such a
question, and so, turning to Ovide, he said: "All right, my good
fellow, go ahead, and give us roast turkey and plum-pudding. I am glad
that after all we shall not be without a Christmas dinner."

During this conference Robbins had been eyeing his fireman with
growing disfavor, and as Fielding ceased, he strode suddenly up to
Ovide and said to him with ill-suppressed wrath: "Before thou begins
thy duties as cook, it is only right that thou shouldst say how thou
larned to cook, and just how much thou knows about it. For my part, I
believe thou knows nought about it; I know thee and thy foolish way of
thinking that thou canst do anything thou hast seen anyone else do."

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 m