discomfiture.

As soon as the cup-a-tea had been served the captain went back to the
pilot house. They had entered the Channel, a toy river, low-banked and
reed-fringed, that led by many a pretty curve into Lake Algonquin. Two
bridges spanned the Channel at its narrowest part, which was named the
Gates, and Captain Jimmie allowed no one but himself, however expert,
to take the _Inverness_ through here.

Relieved from his duties, Roderick strolled away. Like the strange
girl, he, too, had attracted much attention, especially among the young
ladies, and at their bidding Alfred Tennyson had several times
attempted to lure him into joining their circle. But Roderick was shy
and constrained in the presence of young ladies. He had had no time to
cultivate their acquaintance in his school and college days, and had
admired them only from afar in a diffident way; so when Alfred
approached him and begged him once more to come and be introduced he
slipped away downstairs to talk with his old boyhood friend, the
fireman.

"Hello, Pete, we'll soon be in Lake Algonquin!" he cried joyfully, as
he leaned over the low door and watched the young man heaving coal into
the _Inverness's_ hot jaws.

Young Peter slammed the furnace door and came up to get a breath of
cool air. He put a black hand on Roderick's arm, "Say, I'm awful glad
you're home, Rod," he said, smiling broadly.

"And I'm just as awful glad to be home, Pete, old boy. I say, do you
do all the work while the Ancient Mariner there smokes and orders you
round?"

The crew of the _Inverness_, consisting of an engineer and a fireman,
was, whether in port or on the high seas, in a state of frank mutiny.
The Ancient Mariner, as every one called Sandy McTavish, was the
captain's elder brother, and he made no secret of the fact that he
intended to run the _Inverness_ as he pleased, if he ran her to Davy
Jones. Accordingly he smoked and spun yarns all day long in true
nautical fashion, and young Peter McDuff did the work.

But Peter looked at Roderick puzzled, and grinned good naturedly. He
did not understand that there was anything unjust in the arrangement
old Sandy had made of the work. Poor Peter had been born to injustice.
His father was a drunkard and the boy had started life dull of brain
and heavy of foot. His slow mind had not questioned why the burdens of
life should have been so unevenly divided.

But Roderick McRae felt something of the tragedy of Peter