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promised some fresh sea air. “Come on, Toulon,” he coaxed. “Playtime!”
    â€œMummer?” Toulon grumbled as he padded his fore end down the face of the wine cabinet, his haunches still atop, readying for a leap. And announcing his stunt, as an acrobat in a raree show might shout “Hopa!” and clap his hands, to make the feat look more exciting.
    Toulon sprang, a prodigious, steel-sinewed leap to the desk.
    Unfortunately, the black-and-white catling landed on a sheet of folio paper atop that bee’s-waxed and polished cherry surface. He and the paper skidded to starboard. And digging in his claws didn’t help a bit! Laid over slightly “downhill” from horizontal, on the larboard tack, the silky surface became a greased slipway.
    Toulon sat down on his haunches, as if that might help. Surely, sitting still meant still, right? Then, he sailed off the desktop into space. And a very perplexed, and forlorn Toulon, with a contrite and reverent “Mowr?”, asked his cat gods just what the odds were  he’d not come another cropper. Or how large a fool he was going to look in a few seconds.
    There was a bit of midair scrambling, trying to climb the sheet of paper’s front end as it collapsed beneath him and went sailing off on its own course of perversely cruel abandonment.
    â€œUrrff!” he grunted as he landed, immediately slinking off to starboard, into the shadows where the brace of candles on the desk and the gently swinging pewter lanthorns overhead could not shed light on his humiliation.
    â€œGod, but you’re such a bloody disaster!” Alan screeched with laughter, plunking down on the transom settee, too hugely amused to stand. Toulon was almost a yearling now, and still kitten-clumsy. And he’d been a most excruciatingly clumsy kitten to begin with, too!
    Andrews, his coxswain, and his cabin steward, Aspinall, stuck their heads out for a second from the dining coach and small pantry. On the quarterdeck, the watch and the after-guard turned toward the open skylights over the great-cabins and marveled. What sort of a captain we got? they wondered. That wasn’t a sound most associated with a sea officer!
    â€œCome out of there, Toulon,” Lewrie coaxed, after he’d calmed, and had a sip or two more of his wine. He got down on hands and knees in front of the pewlike sofa, a crude oak construct shackled to the starboard bulkhead between a pair of nine-pounders. Spindle posts on the back and openings around the corners, held ties for bright damask cushions that Caroline had made for him. “Come on. ’Tis only your pride’s hurt. I hope. Come out, poor puss. Towey?” Another thing Caroline had whipped together from scraps of colorful spun yarn: a rounded oval with ears and legs—Toulon’s favorite plaything.
    Two chatoyant yellow orbs regarded him from beneath the sofa, slowly blinking. But mostly slit in mortification. “Meek?” came a mournful little wren-peep. God, but he was so embarrassed!
    Lewrie reached under to stroke him, to offer the plaything—but he was having none of that. Toulon folded his arms, tucked his front paws under his chest, and downturned his luxuriant whiskers.
    â€œMoi,” he harrumphed testily, past somber jowls. Bugger off, you heartless bastard! ’Twasn’t funny, Lewrie interpreted.
    â€œWell, if you won’t, you won’t.” Alan sighed, getting to his feet. He got down his plain undress coat, threw it on, and stalked forward.
    â€œYer supper be ready not ten minute from now, sir,” Aspinall assured him quickly. “Yer cook come t’tell me.” Aspinall was one of those unfortunate landsmen some regulating captain and surgeon of the press had passed, when they shouldn’t have: a feeble-bodied city-bred footman, who’d lost his last employ. At least he knew enough about householdery to a gentleman for Lewrie to take him off the