buckskin; to be
noble--like the horse. And now good-bye, Shagganappi, and remember that
you are the real Canadian."

Another handclasp and Lord Mortimer was walking away with the principal
at his side, who was saying, "Your Excellency, you have greatly
encouraged that boy; I think he always felt terribly that he was a
half-bree--half-blood. He would have loved to claim either all Cree or
all French ancestry."

"He is a fine lad and I like him," returned Lord Mortimer, rather
shortly, for he felt a little impatient with the principal, who could so
easily have lightened the boy's heart from the very first year he had
entered the school, by fostering within him pride of the two great races
that blended within his veins into that one mighty nation called
Canadian.

But that day proved the beginning of a new life for Fire-Flint; Lord
Mortimer had called him Shagganappi in a half playful way, had said the
name meant good and great things. No more did the little half-blood
despise his own unusually tinted skin, no more did he hate that dash
of grey in his brown eyes that bespoke "white blood," no more did he
deplore the lack of proper coloring that would have meant the heritage
of pure Indian blood. He was content to fight it out, through all his
life to come, as "The Shagganappi," and when the time came for him to go
to the great Eastern college in Ontario he went with his mind made up
that no boy living was going to shoulder him into a corner or out-do him
in the race for attainment.

* * * * * * * *

"Hello, fellows, there is an Indian blown in from the North-West.
Cracker-jack of a looking chap," announced "Cop" Billings to his
roommates late one morning, as he burst into the room after his early
mile run to find them with yet ten minutes to spare before the "rising
bell."

"Shut up, and let a fellow sleep," growled "Sandy," from his bed in the
corner.

"Indian?" exclaimed young Locke, sitting bolt upright; "this ain't a
Redskin school; he's got to get put out, or I'm a deader."

"You'll be a deader if you try to put him out," sneered Cop Billings;
"first place he's got an arm like braided whipcord, and he's got a
chin--hanged determined swat-you-in-the-face sort of chin--not a
boiled-fish sort of jaw like yours," and he glared at the unfortunate
Locke with sneering disapproval.

"Where'd you see him?" ventured little chunky Johnny Miller, getting
into his clothes.

"Saw him in the library as I pa