"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.