"I'm home!" He called out hopefully as he entered through the garden doors to his cozy study. He sailed his wide-brimmed farmer's hat at a wall peg and shrugged off his cloak, draping it over a wing chair near the cheery fireplace. Warmth was what he wished that instant, the Fires of Hell if he could get 'em. He raised the tails of his coat and backed so close to the hearth that his heels were almost between the firedogs.

"Didn' 'ear ya come in, sir," Will Cony said, entering from the central hall. " 'Spected ya through th' front, I did. I'll take yer things, 'ang 'em up f r ya, sir. Aye, 'ere's 'at of cat, Pitt, sir!"

The grizzled old battler shambled into the room, stalking slow and regal. William Pitt the ram-cat was getting on in years, spending most his days lazing in windows or patches of sunlight, but he still ruled the farm with fang and claw, and even the dogs slunk tail-tucked in terror when he was out and rambling.

Pitt's haughty entrance was disturbed, though, by the arrival of his middle son Hugh, who darted between Cony's knees, leaped the cat, and dashed for him, whooping like a Red Indian. Sewallis, his firstborn, entered behind him. William Pitt, outraged and his dignity destroyed, turned, raked the air in Sewallis' general direction, hissed and moaned before hopping up on his favorite wing chair to wash furiously. And Alan noted that Sewallis shied away from the cat, giving him a wide berth. That was all he had time for before Hugh tackled his leg, howling a greeting.

Alan laughed and reached down to pick him up, to lift him over his head and give him a light toss, making Hugh shriek with joy.

"There's my bold lad!" Alan rejoiced. "There's my dev'lish man! What mischief you been into today, hey?"

"Pwaying, daddy!" Hugh wriggled as he shouted his reply.