Robert Cook was forty-seven years old and had been born during the time of the South African Republic, what was currently called the Union of South Africa. He had come to Canada following the end of the Second Boer War where the British had emerged victorious and all rejoiced at the defeat of that bullheaded caretaker of a prejudiced conviction Paul Kruger, even if the people of South Africa had been quick to forget the evil the man had committed and so, had granted that monster of a man a state funeral when he died in exile.
At a height of six feet and six inches, Mr. Cook was one of few people who was taller than Captain Smith. He was a lean, brown-haired man with a small beard. He typically wore a white shirt with a black jacket, trousers, and shoes.
As Alexander approached Mr. Cook, he looked around his bedroom. There was not much in it besides a photograph showing Mr. Cook's family as it was before leaving South Africa when it consisted of him, his now late wife and his two daughters, the younger being Gemma, Alan's friend.
When Mr. Cook saw Alexander, he closed the book he was reading and said: "Hello there, little fried. You are certainly not Roxana and you are certainly not Darius' apparition. Now what might your name be? I remember Kull saying he planned to name you after Igraine's uncle's old caracal Philip." Mr. Cook extended a hand and pet Alexander on the back as the caracal rubbed his against Mr. Cook's left knee. "Philip was awful, but when you come out victorious against a wolverine, I doubt you can come out looking any different, and mean-tempered, to the point that I remember all of us wishing he had not lived long after that battle. No, no, you are comely in appearance, my lad, and far friendlier. I think we shall all like having you around."