Donald Percival McKenzie was eight years old when the red sandstone villa became his habitation. He was glad to leave the Terrace where they formerly lived as his life in that locality, as far as relations with lads of his own age were concerned, had been none too happy. The migration to Kensington Villa, as the red sandstone eight-roomer was called, was accompanied by a determined ultimatum from young McKenzie that his mother drop the name “Percival” altogether and call him “Donald” in future. As the ultimatum was presented with considerable howling and crying and threats of atrocious behavior, the mother felt that she would have to make the concession.

With this bar to congenial juvenile fraternization removed, Donald felt free to begin life on a new plane. The youthful residents of the suburb he now lived in were “superior.” They did not run around barefooted in summer, nor wear “tackety” or hobnailed boots in winter. Not that Donald scorned either of these pedal comforts. Bare feet were fine and cool and “tackety” boots gave a fellow a grand feeling of heftiness in clumping around the house, in kicking tin cans, and in scuffling up sparks through friction with granolithic sidewalks. Though superior in mode of living and dress compared with the less favored lads of Donald’s former habitation, yet his new chums were very much akin to the latter in their scorn and hatred for anything savoring of “English,” and Donald hadn’t been in the neighborhood two days before he had to prove his citizenship in fistic combat with a youthful Doubting Thomas.

The other lad was bigger and older than Donald and had the name of being a fighter. He gave young McKenzie a severe drubbing and the latter had to go home with his clothes torn and his nose bleeding. The mother was furious and intended to see the other boy’s parents about it, but Donald wouldn’t allow her to do so. Instead, he remained home for an hour or two, changed into a garb less likely to spoil or hinder the free swing of his arms, and then slipped out to have another try at defending his name. Once again, Donald, in pugilistic parlance, “went to the mat for the count,” but in rising he announced his intention of coming back at his fistic partner later—“after I take boxing lessons an’ get my muscle up.” Donald’s determination, and possibly the threat, had considerable effect upon Jamie Sampson, who immediately made conciliatory advances. “I don’t want tae hit ye any more,” he said. “Ye’re a wee fella’—”

“Am I Scotch?” queried Donald aggressively.

“Shair, ye’re Scoatch!” Jamie admitted heartily—adding, “And I’ll punch any fella’s noase that says ye’re no. Let me brush ye doon, Donal’!”

Through the exertion of the “fecht” Donald caught a cold and was laid up for two weeks, but he felt that it was worth it as he had gained the friendship of Jamie Sampson—“the best fighter on the Road, mamma, and you should see how he can dunt a ba’ with his heid!” Donald’s description of Jamie’s prowess in using his skull for propelling a foot-ball caused Mrs. McKenzie some pain at the language used, and to her husband she said, “Donald must go to school soon, but we must send him to a place where he will learn to talk nicely. I think we’ll send him to Miss Watson’s private school. She’s English and very particular.”

Captain McKenzie looked thoughtfully at his son and sighed. “He’s not very strong,” he murmured, “but he’s got spirit if he hasn’t got stamina. Fancy him going for that big lad again after getting a licking! Aye, aye, Janet, he’s a hot-house plant, but maybe he’ll grow out of it if we’re careful.”

Petted and coddled by both parents; seldom rebuked or disciplined, young Donald was inclined to be “babyish” and somewhat arbitrary. He was a rather delicate child—a not unusual exception to the law of eugenics where both parents were ruggedly healthy—and his frequent sicknesses kept him much at home and in the society of his mother. He was clever beyond his years and had mastered “A, B, C’s” and “pot-hooks and hangers” prior to his fifth birthday, while at seven, he could read and write in a manner superior to most thick-skulled Scotch youngsters of ten. He showed surprising evidences of artistic talent at an early age, and the blank cover pages and flyleaves of most of the books in the McKenzie library were adorned with pencil drawings of railway locomotives and ships—mostly ships. Captain McKenzie seldom arrived home from a voyage but what he had to pass critical comment upon his son’s artistic conceptions of the Cardonia ploughing the seas in every manner of weather imaginable. There would be the Cardonia driving through a veritable cordillera of cresting combers—billows which caused the Captain to shudder involuntarily and declare that they were so wonderfully realistic that “he could feel the sprays running down his neck when he looked at them!” The Cardonia would again be presented in odious comparison with a rival company’s ship, and the latter was always dwarfed in size and far astern. In Donald’s eyes, the Cardonia was superior to anything afloat—even the crack Liverpool greyhounds of the day were mere tug-boats compared to her.

Occasionally other ship-masters would accompany Captain McKenzie home to dinner when his ship was in port, and these were red-letter days for Donald. After dinner, the seafarers would retire to the drawing-room and, with pipes or cigars alight and seated before the grate fire, the talk would inevitably drift to ships and shipping. With ears open and drinking in the conversation, Donald would be seated on a cushion in front of the blaze, revelling in the gossip, and unconsciously absorbing the spirit which, for ages, has set the feet of Britain’s youth a-roving o’er the long sea paths.

Mrs. McKenzie would catch the look of rapt attention on her son’s face and with the long foresight of a mother’s mind she would realize that such talk was not good for a boy to hear if he were to be kept to home and home pursuits. Besides, she had a fear of the sea—a fear which was growing on her with time, and only her husband’s monthly home-comings lifted an unknown dread from her heart which returned with his “good-byes.” Though ambitious, proud, extravagant and somewhat callous where the welfare of others was concerned, yet she adored her husband and her son, and if put to the choice, would gladly relinquish her social aspirations for their sakes.

When the wild winter gales raged on the Atlantic and ships were posted as missing or came in with decks swept, Mrs. McKenzie had her share of dreadful fears, as have all seamen’s wives at these times, but her husband had been so consistently fortunate that she almost believed him to be invulnerable to ocean’s caprices. True, there were occasions when the news of the loss of a neighbor’s husband at sea would cause her to frame resolutions to save for such a contingency, but ambition would dominate these good intentions and she would console or deceive herself with the thought that “Alec is young yet. He’s never had an accident, and we’ll save when Donald is through college.”

To her perverted mentality, accidents could happen to others, but they couldn’t happen to Alec. She preferred to think of the sea-captains who had safely dodged the wrath of the sea and who had retired to snug stone villas in sea-side towns where they took their ease growing geraniums and roses and acknowledging the whistle or flag salutes of brother masters in active service as they passed by. On her lonely couch, she dreamed of the future days when Alec would retire from the sea for all time; when she would have him always with her, and when young Donald Percival—man grown—would be a coming Glasgow architect, designing structures destined to be the admiration of all eyes.

In conning over her lifetime so far, Janet felt a great pride in her accomplishments. From the “but and ben” of a poor Highland farm she had travelled far, and to her credit it must be said that she had worked and studied hard to keep pace with her social progress. Her humble origin and the menial service of her pre-marital days had been skilfully covered, and her quick and active mind readily absorbed the “correct” conversation, deportment and pursuits which should necessarily accompany the social status of a “Captain’s wife whose husband was in the New York passenger service, and whose salary was four hundred pounds a year!”

Since her marriage she had dropped home ties. She felt that she owed her parents but little. They had brought her into the world, fed and clothed her for a few years and were glad when she had gone into “service” in Glasgow. She was off their hands then, and ten brothers and sisters more than filled her place at home. Neither her father nor mother could write, and the only time she saw her family again was when they arrived in Glasgow en route to Canada. They were now out on a homestead in “Moose Jaw, Chicago, Sacramento or some such outlandish place,” and she had heard nothing from them since they emigrated.

Baillie Ross had attained the coveted Lord Provostship, but with the honors of the office, he had become unapproachable to Janet. David McKenzie was flying his own house-flag on several sailing-ships, but he had discouraged advances by cutting Captain and Mrs. McKenzie “dead” on the few occasions during which they came face to face. “To the devil with him!” laughed Alec on the first non-recognition. “I can get along without him. His name is a curse in the mouths of sailormen and his ships are notorious as ‘work-houses’ and ‘starvation packets.’ Better not to claim acquaintance with such a brother. He was never anything to me anyhow!”

Alec had written to his uncle upon one occasion—just a friendly letter telling of his progress at sea (he was in the Cardonia then), but Sir Alastair had answered curtly, stating that “David had informed him of his (Alec’s) doings and he didn’t care to hear any more about them!” Alec read the letter thoughtfully, and mentally pictured the story David would spin to the Baronet. With a bitter smile, he threw the letter in the fire and wiped both his brother and his uncle forever from his affections.

Thus, unencumbered or blessed with relations, the McKenzies ploughed their own furrow and lived happily in their own select sphere. Donald went to the private school and showed exceptional brilliancy at his books, even though his tuition was interrupted often by spells of ill-health. His frequent sicknesses worried the mother, until a famous Glasgow specialist had examined the lad and given his verdict. “He’s as sound as a bell, madam, but he has a cauld stomach. Keep his feet warrm and dinna gie him a lot of sweet trash to eat. Dinna coddle him. Let him rin the streets—it’s the life of a laud rinning and jeuking aboot—and by the time he’s twalve or fourteen he’ll be as tough as a louse and as hard tae kill!” Couched in homely Doric, the advice of the great Doctor Chalmers—famous throughout Great Britain for his skill and common-sense prescriptions—assuaged Janet’s fears and opened up a desirable vista to Donald Percival.

Captain McKenzie’s interpretation of the great physician’s advice was to insist on Donald being sent to a public school. “Let him get along with real boys, Janet,” he maintained. “He’s ten years old now and should be able to take care of himself. If you coddle him too much, he’ll be a namby-pamby baby instead of a live boy—”

“But think of the rough characters he’ll meet?” objected his wife.

“He’ll have to meet them sometime and the sooner the better. He isn’t going to be a monk that you should want to keep him so inviolable. Now, Janet, take him away from that kindergarten he’s attending and put him in the Gregg Street Public School right away.” Captain McKenzie was determined, and next day Janet took her ewe-lamb to the public school in a cab and waited on the head master.

That worthy pedagogue assured Mrs. McKenzie that her hopeful would be well looked after and that his morals would not necessarily be contaminated by association with his scholars, and he mentally wondered how it was that all mothers imagined their own children were lambs and those of others, wolves and jackals. Twenty years of driving the rudiments of knowledge into the thick and stubborn skulls of Scotch youngsters had made him cynical, and he looked upon Donald as another mild-looking angel with probable devilish propensities.

Young McKenzie was given an examination to determine the grade or class he was fitted for, and surprised the examiner by his general intelligence. He was then taken and enrolled on the register of the Fifth Standard, and a saturnine male teacher gave him a number and a desk which he had to share with a shock-headed urchin who wore a blue woollen “ganzey” and “tackety” boots. Shock-head glanced over Don’s black velvet suit and white collar with ill-concealed disdain and, having taken the measure of his desk-mate, inquired huskily, “Can ye fight?”

On Donald not deigning to answer this “rude, rough boy,” Shock-head felt encouraged to try the newcomer’s spirit by a lusty jab in the ribs with his elbow. Young McKenzie returned the prod with interest, which caused Shock-head to grunt and make a swing with his fist. The eagle-eyed teacher spied the movement and haled the aggressor to the floor. Producing a snakey-looking leather strap from his pocket, Mr. Corey took a great deal of the belligerency out of Shock-head by administering six stinging blows with the strap on the culprit’s outstretched palm. “Now, sir, go to your seat and leave the new boy alone!”

Shock-head never made a whimper, but returned to his seat and endeavored to cool his injured palm by spitting and blowing on it. Such hardihood appealed to Donald and he whispered in the parlance he was supposed to eschew, “You’re a gey tough yin!” The other, still blowing, nodded and whispered with unmoved lips, “Ah’ve taken twinty swipes an’ he couldny make me greet!”

At this juncture the bell for “minutes” or recess was tolled and Donald filed out in company with Shock-head, who evidently bore no malice.

“Whit’s yer name, new fella’?”

“Donald McKenzie! What’s yours?”

“Joak McGlashan! Whaur d’ye leeve?”

“Maxwell Park! Where do you live?”

“Thurty-seevin M’Clure street an’ up three stairs. Whit does yer faither wurrk at?”

“He’s a sea captain—in the Sutton Line!” declared Donald proudly. The other paused and looked at him in surprise. “Is he? Whit boat is he on?” There was curiosity in his tone.

“The Cardonia!”

McGlashan made an exclamation of pleased astonishment. “My! but that’s funny,” he said. “Ma faither’s bos’n on the Cardonia an’ he’s great pals wi’ your auld man. They get on fine thegither. Jist think o’ that noo! Is she no th’ fine shup th’ Cardonia? Did ye ever see th’ bate o’ her?” And the two boys were chums instantly.

Mrs. McKenzie came down at four and took Donald home in a cab. “And how did you get on, dear?” she asked—nervously glancing at the noisy mob of school children who were lingering around to watch “the toff gaun hame in a cab!”

“Fine, mamma, fine! I’ve got a chum already—Joak McGlashan—and his papa’s bos’n on the Cardonia! He says his pa’s great pals with my old man!”—(Mrs. McKenzie gasped)—“and mamma, Joak is a gey tough yin!”—(Another gasp)—“he can stand twenty swipes on the hand from the teacher’s strap without bubblin’! Aye, an’ he’s going to put a horse-hair on his hand next time he gets punished and he’ll split Mister Corey’s strap to bits. I’m going to bring Joak out to tea some time soon”—(the mother shuddered)—“and he’s going to learn me to stand on my hands and skin the cat and sklim a lamp-post!” At the mention of this contingency and the terms used in naming certain athletic accomplishments, Mrs. McKenzie reached for her smelling salts and felt that the carefully built fabric of years was crumbling.

To her husband that night, Janet said dolefully, “I’m afraid Donald is going to lose all his gentility and good manners at that common school. He has chummed up already with a Jock McGlashan who says that his father is a great ‘pal’ of yours—a boatswain or something on your ship—”

McKenzie laughed. “Oh, yes!—McGlashan! Well! He’s a good honest sort of a fellow and he’s sailed with me a good many years. It won’t hurt Donald to be democratic. When I was a young chap I ate and slept and shared clothes and tobacco with fellows who are quartermasters with me now, and good chaps they are too. Don’t bring our boy up to believe he’s better than anybody else. If you do, he’ll be like a young bear—all his troubles before him.”

“But Donald wishes to bring this McGlashan boy up here to play with him!” protested Janet. “Just think of the manners of M’Clure street being introduced here!”

The other smiled and patted his wife’s hand. “Don’t worry, dear. If Donald wants young McGlashan to play with him here, let him do so. Better to have McGlashan here than have Donald go down to M’Clure street. He won’t learn any more deviltry from my bos’n’s kid than he would from young Sampson or the other imps who live in this neighborhood.” Then, in a kindly tone, he added significantly, “You know, Janet, I was never one for making distinctions in breed or birth. One finds true gentlemen and real ladies dressed in the meanest clothes and serving in the humblest capacities. Let Donald have plenty of rope and don’t coddle him too much.”

Young McKenzie’s introduction to public school life was rather a severe trial to a delicately nurtured boy, who had so far been, as jeering school-mates declared, “tied tae his mither’s apron strings!” His undoubted cleverness in the school-room commanded no admiration from his kind. On the other hand, he was reviled and held up to contempt as one who was false to school-boy traditions by actually studying his lessons—“tae keep in wi’ th’ teacher!” The majority of Scotch boys preferred to have their lessons driven into their hard heads by dint of much corporal punishment rather than lose valuable play hours by “dinnin’ ower their buiks.”

The fact that he lived in a villa in a select suburb, took piano, singing and dancing lessons, and wore nice clothes and a white linen collar—clean every morning—militated against him for a time. To his blue-jerseyed companions, white collars were the trade-marks of a “bloomin’ toff” and fair game for desecrating with ink and muddy paws. Mrs. McKenzie used to tremble with indignation at the sight of her son’s collar on his return from school, but after a month the soiled linen ceased to offend her eyes, as Donald simply removed his collar before entering school and put it on again prior to his entering his home.

He would have fared worse had it not been for Joak McGlashan. Joak was a “tough yin” and had considerable renown as a fistic gladiator. The arena for these encounters was a piece of waste land near the school and screened from the eyes of prowling “polismen” by a high bill-posting boarding. “Efter fower o’clock” was the invariable hour of combat, and many the time Donald arrived home late for tea through acting as second for the invincible Joak. These after-school fights were often sanguinary affairs and the Scotch stubborness and pugnacity were well exemplified in the savagery of the contestants. Scratching, kicking, and hitting a downed man were strictly taboo, but everything else went, and to see the appreciative looks on the faces, and hear the excited yells of the spectators during one of these “after four” meetings, one would be convinced that the Scottish youth was not far removed from his barbaric ancestor.

No boy in the school could avoid doing a round or two behind the bill-boards within a month of his entry into the Gregg street institution. If he hadn’t trampled the hallowed mud of the spot as a combatant it was either because he was too big and strong to be challenged, or because he was a coward. If the latter, his life would be made a misery to him and he would either have to leave the school or go into the arena with the weakest of his tormentors and either beat him or be beaten. A boy who had fought, whether licked or not, had proved himself and would be unmolested.

In due time Donald’s hour of trial came. A dock-lumper’s hulking son had usurped Donald’s hook in the cloak room and had thrown his coat on the floor. Donald saw the action and resented it by throwing the other’s coat off. No blows were exchanged at that time, as the argus-eyed janitor was around, but Luggy Wilson—the big fellow—doubled up his fist and tapped his nose significantly, saying, “Efter fower! Ah’ll do ye! Ye’ll fight me, McKenzie—dirrty toff!”

Luggy was big and strong but lacked “sand.” Donald was endowed with plenty of “grit,” and in the fight that followed behind the bill-boards after school, he came off the victor. A lucky punch on Luggy’s proboscis drew blood, and when the big fellow sighted his own gore he ran away home. Intoxicated with the exhilaration of victory, Donald insisted on Joak accompanying him to Maxwell Park as a reward for seconding him, and Joak, feeling just pride in his protÉgÉ, was glad to go and be in a position to give Captain McKenzie an eye-witness’s account of the fracas.

It was almost six o’clock when Donald, accompanied by Joak, burst into the McKenzie drawing-room. Both Captain and Mrs. McKenzie were at home and the Presbyterian minister and his wife—particular folk—were with them awaiting dinner. At the sight of her son—covered with mud, with swollen lips and a rapidly blackening eye, and accompanied by a shock-headed youngster in blue woollen jersey and hob-nailed boots—Mrs. McKenzie nearly fainted.

“Ah’ve had a fight, mamma!” ejaculated Donald, relapsing into the language of the street. “Ah licked a big fella ca’d Luggy Wulson. He was a big lump with nae guts and I bliddied his beak and gave him a keeker! Didn’t I, Joak?”

“Ye did!” grunted Joak laconically, taking in the luxurious surroundings of his “pal’s hoose.”

Mrs. McKenzie rang for the maid and gasped, “Mary! Take these boys out in the kitchen and clean them!”

The minister and his wife sat very prim and quiet. Mrs. McKenzie felt that her darling had fallen from his pedestal, while Captain McKenzie strode to the bay window and looked out with smiling eyes—secretly delighted—and proud to know that he had a son that was “all boy.”