He had been the
hard-bitten captain of a hard-bitten company, fighting Moros in the
jungles of Mindanao. Then, through the early years of the Twentieth
Century, after his father's death, he had been that _rara avis_ in the
American service, a really wealthy professional officer. He had played
polo, and served a turn as military attache at the Paris embassy. He had
commanded a regiment in France in 1918, and in the post-war years, had
rounded out his service in command of a regiment of Negro cavalry, before
retiring to "Greyrock." Too old for active service, or even a desk at the
Pentagon, he had drilled a Home Guard company of 4-Fs and boys and paunchy
middle-agers through the Second World War. Then he had been an old man,
sitting alone in the sunlight ... until a wonderful thing had happened.
"Get him to tell you about this invisible playmate of his," Stephen
suggested. "If that won't satisfy you, I don't know what will."
* * * * *
It had begun a year ago last June. He had been sitting on a bench on the
east lawn, watching a kitten playing with a crumpled bit of paper on the
walk, circling warily around it as though it were some living prey,
stalking cautiously, pouncing and striking the paper ball with a paw and
then pursuing it madly.
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