a voice over which he had no control, was still at the tea-table. He was
rather ashamed of his appetite, but ate doggedly. "It's not that I'm
hungry just now," he would say, "but I so soon get hungry."

At the far end of the room, in a deep window, a small boy, with a dog
and a cat, was playing at being on a raft. The boy's name was Gervase
Taunton, but he was known to a large circle of acquaintances as "the
Mhor," which, as Jean would have explained to you, is Gaelic for "the
great one." Thus had greatness been thrust upon him. He was seven, and
he had lived at The Rigs since he was two. He was a handsome child with
an almost uncanny charm of manner, and a gift of make-believe that made
his days one long excitement.

He now stood like some "grave Tyrian trader" on the table turned upside
down that was his raft, as serious and intent as if it had been the navy
of Tarshish bringing Solomon gold and silver, ivory and apes and
peacocks. With one arm he clutched the cat and assured that unwilling
voyager, "You're on the dangerous sea, me old puss. You don't want to be
drowned, do you?" The cat struggled and scratched. "Then go--to your
doom!"

He clasped his hands behind him in a Napoleonic manner and stood
gloomily watching the unembarrassed progress of the cat across the
carpet, while Peter (a fox-terrier, and the wickedest dog in Priorsford)
crushed against his legs to show how faithful he was compared to any
kind of cat.

"Haven't you finished eating yet, Jock?" Jean asked. "Here is Mrs.
M'Cosh for the tea-things."