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the emptiness of existence and the pain of life. But she could go out – a thing that had never happened for seven years. She could visit the crofts, and speak to the old women and the children. She could shop at the village store. She sat once more in her pew in the kirk on Sundays. The whole island was the better of that, because they had always liked Mrs Martin.
    Every Friday afternoon a little box was delivered at the door of Inquoy croft, addressed in Mrs Martin’s writing to
Fankle Thomson
. Inside was a tin of salmon, Fankle’s favourite food. At teatime on Fridays, Fankle ate with great luxury.
    Reverend Andrew Martin resumed his eating of cherry cake publicly, and grew rather fatter, but it suited him; and now he didn’t mind so much, when there was laughter once more across the breakfast table at the manse.

The Little Thief with the Whiskers that eats Fish Fins
    â€œOf course,” said Fankle, “that business with Mustacio was nothing. I had seen far greater times.”
    â€œIs that so?” said Jenny.
    They were sitting in the kitchen of Inquoy croft, on a Saturday afternoon. Outside, it was as grey and cold and wet as an old dishcloth. Jenny’s father was working in the barn; Mrs Thomson had had to go to the village for messages. Jenny herself had intended to pass the afternoon with a book, but she couldn’t get on with it, for Fankle kept rubbing against her intent head, purring and miaowing alternately, and once he even walked across the spread pages. It was obvious that Fankle didn’t want his friend to read; at least, not for the moment.
    Then he suddenly spoke, for the first time in a month.
    In a way Jenny was glad, because sometimes she wondered whether she hadn’t dreamed the story of the pirate king Mustacio. She hadn’t dared to tell her parents, or her friends, or the teacher. Sometimes she wondered whether she oughtn’t to tell old Mrs Martin up at the manse, for Mrs Martin knew how clever Fankle was. One day she might tell her; but not until Fankle had spoken again.
    Jenny sighed, smiled, and closed her book.
    â€œHave you ever wondered,” said Fankle, “where I come from really?”
    â€œWell,” said Jenny, “I thought at first you came from Tom Strynd’s grocery van. But it seems you’re a Liverpool cat – or so you said.”
    â€œI am
not
,” said Fankle. “I lived for a time in Liverpool, that’s all. I had come down in the world.”
    â€œIs that so?” said Jenny.
    â€œI’ll give you three guesses,” said Fankle, “as to the place of my origin.”
    After a pause, Jenny said, “Paris,” for Fankle had a certain style and sophistication about him.
    â€œWrong,” said Fankle. “It’s true, I lived in Paris for a while. I belonged to Marie Antoinette’s fourth lady of the bedchamber. But I didn’t come from there.”
    â€œMaybe, Peru,” said Jenny.
    â€œYou’re just making wild guesses,” said Fankle. “Every girl of intelligence knows that cats – the best strain of cat, that is – come from Egypt.”
    â€œI suppose,” said Jenny, with a touch of sarcasm, “you belonged to Cleopatra’s servant.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t,” said Fankle. “I lived thousands of years before Cleopatra. As a matter of fact it was a rather humble beginning I had in life. First thing I remember, I was a little thin cat wandering about on the mudflats of the Nile, eating maybe a stranded fish now and then. Nobody in Egypt seemed to like cats at that time. I got more kicks than ha’ pennies.”
    â€œPoor Fankle,” said Jenny.
    â€œI wasn’t called Fankle then either. I had a name you couldn’t pronounce. It means this, roughly – ‘little thief with the whiskers that eats fish fins.’ I didn’t mind. I had faith in myself. I knew that in the end all those peasants and