d this conviction.
Nobody at home has yet any adequate idea, I am deplorably sure, of what
the Barnacles and the Circumlocution Office have done for us. But
whenever we get into war again, the people will begin to find out."

His own household had got into a small war already, of which the
commander-in-chief was his man-servant "French," the bulk of the forces
engaged being his children, and the invaders two cats. Business brought
him to London on the hostilities breaking out, and on his return after a
few days the story of the war was told. "Dick," it should be said, was a
canary very dear both to Dickens and his eldest daughter, who had so
tamed to her loving hand its wild little heart that it was become the
most docile of companions.[194] "The only thing new in this garden is
that war is raging against two particularly tigerish and fearful cats
(from the mill, I suppose), which are always glaring in dark corners,
after our wonderful little Dick. Keeping the house open at all points,
it is impossible to shut them out, and they hide themselves in the most
terrific manner: hanging themselves up behind draperies, like bats, and
tumbling out in the dead of night with frightful caterwaulings.
Hereupon, French borrows Beaucourt's gun, loads the same to the muzzle,
discharges it twice in vain and throws himself over with the recoil,
exactly like a clown. But at last (while I was in town) he aims at the
more amiable cat of the two, and shoots that animal dead. Insufferably
elated by this victory, he is now engaged from morning to night in
hiding behind bushes to get aim at the other. He does nothing else
whatever. All the boys encourage him and watch for the enemy--on whose
appearance they give an alarm which immediately serves as a warning to
the creature, who runs away. They are at this moment (ready dressed for
church) all lying on their stomachs in various parts of the garden.
Horrible whistles give notice to the gun what point it is to approach. I
am afraid to go out, lest I should be shot. Mr. Plornish says his
prayers at night in a whisper, lest the cat should overhear him and take
offence. The tradesmen cry out as they come up the avenue, 'Me voici!
C'est moi--boulanger--ne tirez pas, Monsieur Franche!' It is like living
in a state of siege; and the wonderful manner in which the cat preserves
the character of being the only person not much put out by the intensity
of this monomania, is most ridiculous." (6th of July.)