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was. And “e was allus going out to gatherin’s.” A cold hand clutched at my heart. “You’d better come upstairs. Bring the boys with you.”
    Helen was laying the table for lunch in our little bed-sitter.
    “Helen,” I said. “This is Mr.—er—I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.
    ” “Gibbons, Sep Gibbons. They called me Septimus because ah was the seventh in family and it looks like ah’m going that’same way “cause we’ve got six already. These are our two youngest.” The two boys, obvious twins of about eight, looked up at us solemnly. I wished my heart would stop hammering. “Mr. Gibbons thinks Oscar is his. He lost his cat some time ago.” My wife laid down the plates. “Oh …
    oh … I see.” She stood very still for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Do sit down. Oscar’s in the kitchen, I’ll bring him through.” She went out and reappeared with the cat in her arms. She hadn’t got through the door before the little boys gave tongue.
    “Tiger!” they cried. “Oh, Tiger, Tiger!” The man’s face seemed lit from within. He walked quickly across the floor and ran his big work-roughened hand along the fur. “Hullo, awd lad,” he said, and turned to me with a radiant smile. “It’s “im, Mr. Herriot, it’s “im awright, and don’t “e look well!” “You call him Tiger, eh?” I said.
    “Aye,” he replied happily. “It’s them gingery stripes. The kids called “im that. They were broken-hearted when we lost “im.” As the two little boys rolled on the floor our Oscar rolled with them, pawing playfully, purring with delight. Sep Gibbons sat down again.
    “That’s the way “e allus went on wi” the family. They used to play with “im for hours. By gaw we did miss “im. He were a right favourite.” I looked at the broken nails on the edge of the cap, at the decent, honest, uncomplicated Yorkshire face so like the many I had grown to like and respect. Farm men like him got thirty shillings a week in those days and it was reflected in the threadbare jacket, the cracked, shiny boots and the obvious hand-me-downs of the boys. But all three were scrubbed and tidy, the man’s face like a red beacon, the children’s knees gleaming and their hair carefully slicked across their foreheads. They looked like nice people to me. I turned towards the window and looked out over the tumble of roofs to my beloved green hills beyond. I didn’t know what to say. Helen said it for me. “Well, Mr. Gibbons.” Her tone had an unnatural brightness. “You’d better take him.” The man hesitated.
    “Now then, are ye sure, Missus Herriot?” “Yes … yes, I’m sure. He was your cat first.” “Aye, but some folks “ud say finders keepers or summat like that. Ah didn’t come “ere to demand “im back or owt of that’sort.” “I know you didn’t, Mr. Gibbons, but you’ve had him all those years and you’ve searched for him so hard. We couldn’t possibly keep him from you.” He nodded quickly. “Well, that’s right good of ye.” He paused for a moment, his face serious, then he stopped and picked Oscar up. “We’ll have to be off if we’re going to catch the eight o”clock bus.” Helen reached forward, cupped the cat’s head in her hands and looked at him steadily for a few seconds.
    Then she patted the boys” heads. “You’ll take good care of him, won’t you?” “Aye, missus, thank ye, we will that.” The two small faces looked up at her and smiled. “I’ll see you down the stairs, Mr.
    Gibbons,” I said. On the descent I tickled the furry cheek resting on the man’s shoulder and heard for the last time the rich purring.
    On the front door step we shook hands and they set off down the street. As they rounded the corner of Trengate they stopped and waved, and I waved back at the man, the two children and the cat’s head looking back at me over the shoulder. It was my habit at that time in my life to mount the stairs two or three at a time but on this