s Tail?"

"Ah, to be sure!" cried Kenneth; "you'd like to see that."

"Is--is the grey mare ashore?" faltered the visitor.

"Yes, just round that point--a mile ahead."

"Yes, please--I should like to see that," said the guest, with a sigh of
relief, for he seemed to see safety in being nearer the shore.

"All right! We'll run for it," cried Kenneth; and he slightly altered
the boat's course, so as to draw a little nearer to the land. "Wind's
getting up beautifully."

"Getting up?"

"Yes. Blow quite a little gale to-night, I'll be bound."

"Is--is there any danger?"

"Oh, I don't know. We get a wreck sometimes--don't we, Scood?"

"Oh ay, very fine wrecks sometimes, and plenty of people trowned!"

"You mean wrecks of ships?"

"Yes; and boats too, like this--eh, Scood?"

"Oh yes; poats like this are often wrecked, and go to the pottom," said
Scood maliciously.

There was a dead silence in the boat, during which Kenneth and Scood
exchanged glances, and their tired companion clutched the seat more
tightly.

"I say, your name's Blande, isn't it?" said Kenneth suddenly.

"Yes; Maximilian--I mean Max Blande."

"And you are going to stay with us?"

"I suppose so."

The lad gave his tormentor a wistful look, but it had no effect.

"Long?"

"I don't know. My father said I was to come down here. Is it much
farther on?"

"Oh yes, miles and miles yet. We shall soon show you the Grey Mare's
Tail now."

"Couldn't we walk the rest of the way, then?"

"Walk! No. Could we, Scood?"

"No, we couldn't walk," said the lad addressed; "and who'd want to walk
when we've got such a peautiful poat?"

There was another silence, during which the boat rushed on, with Kenneth
trickily steering so as to make their way as rough as possible, both
boys finding intense enjoyment in seeing the pallid, frightened looks of
their guest, and noting the spasmodic starts he gave whenever a little
wave came with a slap against the bows and sprinkled them.

"I say, who's your father?" said Kenneth suddenly.

"Mr Blande of Lincoln's Inn. You are Mr Mackhai's son, are you not?"

"I am The Mackhai's son," cried Kenneth, drawing himself up stiffly.

"Yes; there's no Mr Mackhai here," cried Scoodrach fiercely. "She's
the Chief."

"She isn't, Scood. Oh, what an old dummy you are!"

"Well, so she is the chief."

"So she is! Ah, you! Look here, you, Max Blande: my father's the Chief
of the Clan Mackhai."

"Is he?