The old greasy is the jacket, and Mr. Don obediently gets into it. ‘Anything you like. No, that’s the wrong sleeve. Thanks, Dick.’ They are in the ingle-nook now, and the mischievous boy catches his father by the shoulders. ‘Here, let me shove you into your old seat.’ Mr. Don is propelled on to the settle. ‘How’s that, umpire!’ ‘Dick,’ smiling, ‘that’s just how you used to butt me into it long ago!’ Dick is probably standing with his back to the fire, chuckling. ‘When I was a kid.’ ‘With the palette in my hand.’ ‘Or sticking to your trousers.’ ‘The mess we made of ourselves, Dick.’ ‘I sneaked behind the settle and climbed up it.’ ‘Till you fell off.’ ‘On top of you and the palette.’ It is good fun for a father and son; and the crafty boy has succeeded in making the father laugh. But soon, ‘Ah, Dick.’ The son frowns. He is not going to stand any nonsense. ‘Now then, behave! What did I say about that face?’ Mr. Don smiles at once, obediently. ‘That’s better. I’ll sit here.’ We see from his father’s face which is smiling with difficulty that Dick has plopped into the big chair on the other side of the ingle-nook. His legs are probably dangling over one of its arms. Rather sharply, ‘Got your pipe?’ ‘I don’t--I don’t seem to care to smoke nowadays, Dick.’ ‘Rot! Just because I am dead! You that pretend to be plucky! I won’t have it, you know. You get your pipe, and look slippy about it.’ ‘Yes, Dick,’ the old man says obediently. He fills his pipe from a jar on the mantelshelf. We may be sure that Dick is watching closely to see that he lights it properly. ‘Now, then, burn your thumb with the match--you always did, you know. That’s the style. You’ve forgotten to cock your head to the side. Not so bad. That’s you. Like it?’ ‘It’s rather nice, Dick. Dick, you and me by the fire!’ ‘Yes, but sit still. How often we might have been like this, father, and weren’t.’ ‘Ah!’ ‘Face. How is Fido?’ ‘Never a dog missed her master more.’ ‘Oh,’ frowning. ‘She doesn’t want to go and sit on my grave, or any of that tosh, does she? As if I were there!’ ‘No, no,’ hastily; ‘she goes ratting, Dick.’ ‘Good old Fido!’ ‘Dick, here’s a good one. We oughtn’t to keep a dog at all because we are on rations now; but what do you think Fido ate yesterday?’ ‘Let me guess. The joint?’ ‘Almost worse than that. She ate all the cook’s meat tickets.’ They laugh together, but when Dick says light-heartedly, ‘That dog will be the death of me,’ his father shivers. Dick does not notice this; his eyes have drawn him to the fishing-rods. ‘Hullo!’ ‘Yes, those are your old fishing-rods.’