boyhood was not quite as
jolly as yours is--not so independent. You see, we always had tutors and
things to look after us and keep us shut in, as it were, and I never
knew, as I dare say you do, the pleasure of getting about by myself,
and--" His voice trailed off as if he were thinking of something else.
Suddenly he seemed to awaken, and, removing his cap, let the keen
morning air blow across his long, fine hair--dark hair touched about the
temples with gray. Then he smiled down at the sunburnt boy at his side,
and said, as if he feared to be overheard, "Bob, I'd give five dollars
to be a boy like you to-day, and be able to run those rapids in a canoe.
Would it be safe?"

"I've done it twenty times, Your Excellency," said Bob, eagerly, "and in
this same old canoe here. I know every shoal, every rock, every bar in
the river. Oh, sir, that _is_ sport, the very best sport I know of!"

The spirit of the thing seemed to take hold of Lord Dunbridge, "Perhaps,
Bob," he exclaimed, with a dashing enthusiasm, "perhaps, Bob, some day
you and I will--"

"Yes, sir, I think I know," interrupted Bob, as the other hesitated;
then, in a half whisper, "I'll bring you through safely, sir, any time
you want to go."

"And you quite understand, Bob, you are to say nothing about that canoe
trip we're to have, don't you?" said His Excellency, as they parted at
the Governor's landing.

Bob lifted his cap, saying very quietly, "Very well, sir, no one shall
know." Then he paddled slowly, very slowly, away. His thoughts were
busy. Here was he, Bob Stuart, an obscure boy from an obscure Ontario
town, holding in common a secret with the Governor-General of all
Canada, a secret that not even the Prime Minister at Ottawa knew. Then
came the horror, the fear of an accident. Suppose something happened to
the canoe. Suppose she split her bow on a rock. Suppose His Excellency
"lost his head" and got nervous. Suppose a thousand things. But Bob
put it all resolutely behind him. He felt his strong young muscles,
his vital fingers, his pliant wrists. Yes, it was a great thing to be
a boy--a boy whose great pride had always been to excel in typical
Canadian sports, to be the "crack" canoeist, and to handle a paddle with
the ease of a professional. It was worth everything in the world to
recall the time when someone had tauntingly said, "Oh, Bob Stuart's no
good at cricket and baseball. Why, he can't even play tennis. All he
can do is to potter at his ol