At parting, The Laird handed his son a check for twenty-five thousand
dollars.

"This is the first year's allowance, Donald," he informed the boy
gravely. "It should not require more than a hundred thousand dollars
to educate a son of mine, and you must finish in four years. I would
not care to think you dull or lazy."

"Do you wish an accounting, father?"

The Laird shook his head.

"Keeping books was ever a sorry trade, my son. I'll read the
accounting in your eye when you come back to Port Agnew."

"Oh!" said young Donald.

At the end of four years, Donald graduated, an honor-man in all his
studies, and in the lobby of the gymnasium, where the athletic heroes
of Princeton leave their record to posterity, Hector McKaye read his
son's name, for, of course, he was there for commencement. Then they
spent a week together in New York, following which old Hector
announced that one week of New York was about all he could stand. The
tall timber was calling for him.

"Hoot, mon!" Donald protested gaily. He was a perfect mimic of Sir
Harry Lauder at his broadest. "Y'eve nae had a bit holiday in all yer
life. Wha' spier ye, Hector McKaye, to a trip aroond the worl', wi' a
wee visit tae the auld clan in the Hielands?"