The liner "Claudia" was ripping her way eastwards through a calm Atlantic, like shears through an endless length of blue muslin.

An unclouded morning sun beat full upon the pale cheeks and delicate frame of Larssen's little twelve-year-old son, alone with his father on their private promenade deck. The contrast between the broad frame of the shipowner and the delicate, nervous, under-sized physique of his boy was striking in its irony. Here was the strong man carving out an empire for his descendants, and here was his only son, the inheritor-to-be. Neither physically nor mentally could Olaf ever be more than the palest shadow of his father, and yet Larssen was the only person who could not see this. He was trying to train his boy to hold an empire as though he were born to rule.

"How clever Mr Dean is!" Olaf was saying.

"Why?"

"Look at the set of wheels he's rigged up for me so as I can sail my boat on deck." He held up a beautiful model yacht, perfect in line and rig, with which he was playing. Underneath it was a crudely-made contrivance of wood and wire, with four corks for wheels—the handiwork of Arthur Dean.

"Was that your idea?" inquired Larssen.

"No, Dad.... Now, watch me sail her up to windward."

"Wait. You ought to have thought out that idea for yourself."

"I haven't any tools on board, Dad."

"Then go and make friends with the carpenter." Larssen took up the crude contrivance and looked it over contemptuously. "I want you to think out a better device; pitch this overboard; then find out where Mr Chips lives, make friends with him, and get him to construct you a proper set of wheels to your own design."

The boy looked troubled. "I don't want to throw it overboard!" he protested. "I want to sail my boat on deck now."

"Sonny, there are heaps of things that are good for you to do which you won't want to do. It's like being told by the doctor to take medicine. It's nasty to take, but very good for you.... I want to see you one day a big strong fellow able to handle men and things—a great big strong fellow men will be afraid of. That's to be your ambition. You've got to learn to handle men and things. Here's one way to do it."

"But Mr Dean wouldn't like it if he knew I'd thrown his wheels overboard."

"Dean is a servant. He's paid to do things for you. His feelings don't matter.... But you needn't tell him you threw his wheels away. Say they slipped over the side. Now, get a pencil and paper, and let me see you work out a better contrivance."

Olaf obeyed, though reluctantly, and presently he was deep amongst the problems of the inventor. Lars Larssen watched the boy with a tenderness that few would have given him credit for.

"I've got it! Look, Dad!" cried the boy excitedly, and began to explain his idea and his tangled drawing.

"Good! That's what I want from you. Now, don't you feel better at having worked out the idea all on your own?"

"Yes, Dad. I'll go to Mr Chips at once and get it made. In which part of the ship does he live?"

"You must find that out yourself."

"How much shall I offer him?"

"Don't offer him anything. Make friends with him, and he'll do it for you for nothing."

"But I always give people money to do things for me."

"That's a bad habit. Drop it. Get things done for you for nothing."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to be a business man when you grow up, and not merely a spender of money."

"What does a business man mean exactly?"

"A ruler of men."

The boy looked troubled again. His confusion of thoughts sorted themselves into his declaration: "I don't want to be a ruler of men; I want people to like me."

"That's a poor ambition."

"Why?"

"Mostly anyone wants that. It's a sign of weakness. Drop it."

"What ought I to want?"

"People to fear you."

"Why should they be afraid of me, Dad?"

"For one thing, because some day you'll have all my money and all my power. Just how big that is you can't realise yet. That's one reason. The other reason must lie with yourself—you must make yourself strong and afraid of nothing. How many fights did you have this term, before you got ill?"

"Only one."

It was clear from the boy's downcast eyes that he had been beaten in his fight.

"That's bad. That's disobeying my orders. Didn't I tell you to fight every boy in the school until they acknowledged you master?"

"I'm not strong enough."

"You must make yourself strong enough. It's not a question of muscle, but will-power. When you're properly over this illness, I'll pick you out a school in England with about thirty or forty boys of your own age. They're soft, these English boys, softer than Americans. I want you to lick your way through them, and then I'll take you back to the States to polish up on Americans."

After a pause came this question: "Dad, must I have all your money when I grow up? Couldn't some one else have some of it?"

"Sonny, don't look at it that way. You're born to an empire; try and make yourself fit for it. I'm building it for you. It'll be a glorious inheritance.... Now throw those wheels overboard, and run along and find Mr Chips."

Presently Arthur Dean came to the private deck to ask if Larssen had any orders for him. He was acting as interim private secretary.

The shipowner dictated a few messages to be sent by wireless, and then remarked:

"When you're back in London, I suppose you'll be going to see your young lady as well as your parents?"

Dean blushed.

"Taking her back any presents?"

"Yes, sir."

"A ring?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Well, I don't doubt that'll come in its own good time."

"You don't think I ought to——?" began Dean tentatively.

"I don't interfere in that. It's your own private affair and no concern of mine. You can afford to marry her on your present salary. If she's a girl likely to make a good wife, I hope you will marry her. I like my employees to be married. It's healthy for them and makes them better business men. Is she an ambitious girl?"

"I hardly know that."

"Well, my advice to you is this: marry someone ambitious. You'll need it. You're inclined to weaken."

"It's very good of you to take such an interest in me."

"I like you. I want to make you one of my right-hand men eventually. Now I want to say this in particular: keep business affairs to yourself."

"I'll certainly do so, sir."

"Don't talk about them even to your parents, even to your young lady. I'm paying you a very good salary for a man of your age, and I expect a closed mouth about my affairs."

"Of course."

"Get the reason for it. This deal I'm engaged on is a big thing, and there are plenty of City people in London who'd like to know just what I'm planning, and just why Matheson and I sent you to Canada. I want you to keep them guessing until the scheme's floated. D'you get that?"

"Certainly, sir! You may rely on me not to say anything about your business affairs to anybody. I know how things leak around once anybody's told."

"That's right! Now send off those wireless messages, and then go and amuse yourself for the rest of the morning. Cabin and all quite comfortable?"

"Quite, thank you, sir," answered Dean, and went off buoyantly.

In the afternoon Olaf was sailing his yacht on deck on the new set of wheels made for him by the ship's carpenter, while his father sat stretched in a long deck-chair watching him tenderly and weaving dreams for his future. The thought crossed his mind—not for the first time—whether it wouldn't be advisable to get a stepmother for the boy. Larssen had a strong intuitive feeling that he would not live to old age, and he wanted to know that the boy would have someone to care for him and to stand behind him while he was seating himself firmly on his father's throne.

Specifically, the shipowner was reviewing Olive as a possible stepmother. There was no scrap of passion in his thoughts. He was viewing the matter as a business proposition, weighing the pros and cons calmly and cool-bloodedly. Would Olive be the right stepmother for the boy? She was of good family, with influential connections. She made a fine presence as a hostess. Her ambition was undoubted. Even the trifling point of the similarity between Olive's name and that of his boy impressed him, by some curious twist of mind, as favourable.

"Dad, look at me!" called out Olaf. "I've made some buoys, and now I'm going to sail her round a racing course."

He had run needles through three corks, and planted them in the pitch-seams of the deck to form the three points of a large triangle, in imitation of the buoys of a yacht-race course.

"This buoy is Sandy Hook, and this one is the Fastnet, and that one over there is Gibraltar."

"Good!" said the shipowner. "I'll time the race." He took out his watch. "Are you ready?... Go!"

When the course was completed and the yacht lay at anchor again at Sandy Hook, Larssen called his son to the seat at his side.

"Do you remember much of your mother?" he asked.

The boy's face clouded over. "I don't know. Sometimes I seem to see her very plainly, and sometimes again I don't seem to see her at all when I try to. Was mother very beautiful?"

"Very beautiful, to me," assented the shipowner.

"I think I should have loved her very much."

"How would you like to have a new mother?"

Olaf thought this over in silence for some time.

"It depends," he ventured at length.

"Depends on what?"

"I don't know. I must see her. Then I could tell you."

"You care for the idea?"

"I must see her first."

"Yes, that's right. Well, Sonny, as soon as we're in London I'll take you to see her. But remember this: don't breathe a word of it to anyone. Keep a tight mouth. That's what a business man has always got to learn."

"Why?"

"Because silence in the right place means big money."

Olaf reflected over the new problem for some time.

"Dad," he said presently, "I'd like her to like me very much. And I'd like her to be a good sailor."

Larssen smiled at the naÏve requirement.

"Is that very important?"

"Yes. You see, I want her to live with us on a yacht, and some women are so ill whenever they go on board a boat."

"Which do you like best: the country, or a big city, or the sea?"

"The sea—the sea! I hate a big city. The crowds of people make me feel...." He groped about for a word which would express his feeling " ... make me feel so lonely."

"You'll have to overcome that. One day your work will lie in controlling crowds of people."

"Dad, let me stay on a yacht till I get quite well again!"

Larssen considered for a moment. "Well, if it will help you to get your fighting muscle, I'll arrange it. There's a small cruising yacht of mine—the 'Starlight'—lying in Southampton Water. I might have her cruise about the Channel for you."

"Thank you, Dad, I'd like that immensely."

"Yes, I'll see to that. We must go up to London for a few days, and meanwhile I'll arrange to have the 'Starlight' put in order for you."

"Can I be captain of the yacht?"

"That's the spirit I want! But you can't be captain at a jump. You must work your way up. First you'll have to work for your mate's ticket. I'll tell the captain to put you through your paces—give you your trick at the wheel and so on. But see here, Sonny, it'll be work and not play. You'll have to obey orders just as if you were a new apprentice."

"I love the sea! I'll work right enough."

Larssen grew grave with memories. "Work? You'll never know work as I knew it. At fourteen I was a drudge on a Banks trawler. Kicked and punched and fed on the leavings of the fo'castle. Hands skinned raw with hauling on the dredge-ropes——"

A deck steward bearing a wireless telegram came to interrupt them. The message was from Olive, and it read:

"Important developments. Come to see me as soon as you arrive."

Larssen scribbled an answer and handed it to the steward for despatch.

The boy was thinking over the coming cruise of the "Starlight." Suddenly he exclaimed: "I've got an idea! Invite her on board my yacht!"

Larssen smiled. "That's a very practical test for her!" he said.