is final admonition. "Raise hell if you
must, but if you love your old father, be a gentleman about it. You've
sprung from a clan o' men, not mollycoddles."

"Hence the expression: 'When Hector was a pup,'" Donald replied
laughingly. "Well, I'll do my best, father--only, if I stub my toe,
you mustn't be too hard on me. Remember, please, that I'm only half
Scotch."

At parting, The Laird handed his son a check for twenty-five thousand
dollars.

"This is the first year's allowance, Donald," he informed the boy
gravely. "It should not require more than a hundred thousand dollars
to educate a son of mine, and you must finish in four years. I would
not care to think you dull or lazy."

"Do you wish an accounting, father?"

The Laird shook his head.

"Keeping books was ever a sorry trade, my son. I'll read the
accounting in your eye when you come back to Port Agnew."

"Oh!" said young Donald.

At the end of four years, Donald graduated, an honor-man in all his
studies, and in the lobby of the gymnasium, where the athletic heroes
of Princeton leave their record to posterity, Hector McKaye read his
son's name, for, of course, he was there for commencement. Then they
spent a week together in New York, following which old Hector
announced that one week of New York was about all he could stand. The
tall timber was calling for him.

"Hoot, mon!" Donald protested gaily. He was a perfect mimic of Sir
Harry Lauder at his broadest. "Y'eve nae had a bit holiday in all yer
life. Wha' spier ye, Hector McKaye, to a trip aroond the worl', wi' a
wee visit tae the auld clan in the Hielands?"

"Will you come with me, son?" The Laird inquired eagerly.

"Certainly not! You shall come with me. This is to be my party."

"Can you stand the pressure? I'm liable to prove an expensive
traveling companion."

"Well, there's something radically wrong with both of us if we can't
get by on two hundred thousand dollars, dad."

The Laird started, and then his Scotch sense of humor--and, for all
the famed wit of the Irish, no humor on earth is so unctuous as that
of the Scotch--commenced to bubble up. He suspected a joke on himself
and was prepared to meet it.

"Will you demand an accounting, my son?"

Donald shook his head.

"Keeping books was ever a sorry trade, father, I'll read the
accounting in your eye when you get back to Port Agnew."

"You braw big scoundrel! You've been up to something. Tell it me, man,
or I'll die wi' the su