ting, although neither he nor those
appointed to guide him were aware of it at the time.

XV

Keith took a liking to George Murray from the start. During the first
couple of days he looked at him frequently as if to invite acquaintance,
but the other boy always appeared deeply attentive to the subject of the
hour. During the pauses he withdrew into a corner as if to forestall
possible advances. At the end of the second day Keith and Murray
reached the stairway simultaneously and started for the street side by
side. Murray's pale, aristocratic and very narrow face with unduly
prominent teeth still bore a look of indifference, but his attitude had
lost a little of its previous stiffness.

"Where do you live," Keith ventured with for him rare forwardness.

"On the Quay," replied Murray in a voice that neither encouraged nor
discouraged.

"Where," asked Keith eagerly.

"Corner of St. John's Lane."

"That's my corner," cried Keith. "I live in the lane, and we have the
same way home."

"All right," was Murray's only answer, which Keith accepted in the
affirmative.

Little more was said until they reached the top of the hill above Carl
Johan Square, when Keith explained that he always kept to the left along
the shore of Lake Maelaren.

"I always take the other way," rejoined Murray, suiting his actions to
his words.

"All right," said Keith in his turn, going along toward the saltwater
side of the harbour as if it had been the route of his own choice. They
stopped for a moment to watch the sloops in the fish market loaded
almost to the point of foundering with live fish. Further out a number
of large sailing vessels rode at anchor. Still further away, where the
southern shore drew close to the point of the island with the turreted
red fort, a big black steamer was seen slowly creeping toward its
landing place at the Quay. For a moment Murray studied it intently,
shading his eyes in sailor fashion to see better.

"That's one of our steamers," he said at last.

"Do you mean you own it," gasped Keith incredulously.

"The company does," explained Murray.

"Which company?"

"The one of which my father is managing director."

"Are there many of them," Keith asked to be polite. It sounded too much
like a fairy tale.

"Seven," replied Murray casually. "They are all painted black and sail
on foreign ports."

"Did you ever travel on one," inquired Keith with something like awe in
his voice.

"Yes," said