The Recollections of an Eighteenth-Century Gentleman of the Craft Saint Andrew, as I've said before, is a great favourite of mine; I named a son after him, so I did. It is recorded that he was Our Lord's first disciple, a fisherman by trade, who, when summoned, didn't simply abandon all and follow, but ran and told his brethren. By his actions, the saint demonstrated two of the traits that Lightfoote most admires in a man: he failed to do as he was told and succeeded in spreading joy, for when offered a great gift – the greatest gift of all – his first thought was to share it. I bless his name whenever there's fish on the table and I never get gut rot!

Note: the best accompaniments to fish, I find, are the white wines of Burgundy, but if these are not available, ale will suffice. Raw fillets of herring, flamed in gin, is a quite spectacular appetiser, but perhaps not for those of a delicate constitution.

A candidate for initiation has been proposed in the Stonic Lodge and this has caused great consternation. His name is Andrews, Nathaniel Andrews, and he is a rat catcher by trade. When his curriculum vitae was read out by his proposer, a fishmonger, there was a distinct and uncomfortable stirring in the ranks. A brother who considers himself a gentleman, but is, in fact, a lawyer, raised objection on the grounds that having a rat catcher in the lodge might lower the tone of our proceedings. Nathaniel's seconder, a wheelwright, countered that, though rat catching was unquestionably a dirty job, someone had to do it. The lawyer, with all the insolence of his office, observed that no-one had to be a rat catcher. Had this fellow, he enquired, been dragooned into service? Did there exist a verminous equivalent of the press gang – the rat pack, perhaps?
No, Master Andrews had elected to be a rat catcher; he could have been a fishmonger, or a wheelwright, or a butcher or a baker or a candlestick maker, but rat catching was his chosen profession, and thus it was acceptable to choose to despise him for it. Laughter ensued. Lightfoote rose.

      I enquired of the fishmonger as to whether Nathaniel was a family man. I was informed that he had a wife and two strapping sons, all three of whom he kept in warmth and comfort and always fed with fish on Fridays. Next, I asked the wheelwright if he knew what the rat catcher did on Sundays and was informed that he and his family, all impeccably dressed, drove to church in a dog cart (perfect in all its parts, esp. the wheels) where they furnished the choir with a soprano, and alto, a tenor and a bass. I observed that this gentleman – and I laid stress on the word – seemed to me to exemplify domestic harmony, and got a laugh livelier than the lawyer's!

      The wheelwright saw fit to add that his friend was also an accomplished player on the bassoon. I was constrained to concede that none of us is perfect. This reduced the brethren to incontinent mirth.

      Lightfoote came to the point: rats.

      Rats are a plague on this city. Rats, some say, brought the Great Plague to The Great Wen, and this was only purged in the Great Fire. He who toils to rid us of such a pestilence must therefore be considered a Great Man, who does a greater service to the populace than most lawyers (on reflection, 'most' is superfluous).

      Consider this: as we are not all operative masons, but rather free and accepted, or speculative, might we not ponder the possibility of free and accepted rat catchers and, indeed, speculative rats? Intolerance, injustice, intemperance and insolence are spread, like the foulest canker, from the middens of mean minds to infect humanity at large? Who resists? Who remains steadfast in the faith? Who cuts off the tales of those that tell tales and holds tight to the truth? We do, brethren. Thus are we rat catchers all, are we not?

      There was silence in the House of judgement.

      Nathaniel Andrew has been accepted as a candidate for initiation and I am confident that he will be an ornament to the lodge and a handy fellow to know if one has an infestation – and who among us doesn’t, from time to time?

      I’ve done a ditty:

      In his rat catcher’s breeches and rat catcher’s hat;
      Behold now our brother: the rat catcher, Nat.
      Not one of life’s loafers but one of its doers;
      He toils in the gutters, he delves in the sewers.
      In the damp and the darkness he fights the good fight,
      To arise, from the mire, in triumph, to light

      And so to the herrings, flamed in gin, and good night’s sleep, if the two be not mutually exclusive.