knowing that The Laird was apt to be up there watching, formed the
habit of doing something that pleased their owner mightily. When the
northwest trades held steady and true, and while the tide was still at
the flood, they would scorn the services of the tug that went out to
meet them and come ramping into the bight, all their white sails set
and the glory of the sun upon them; as they swept past, far below The
Laird, they would dip his house-flag--a burgee, scarlet-edged, with a
fir tree embroidered in green on a field of white--the symbol to the
world that here was a McKaye ship. And when the house-flag fluttered
half-way to the deck and climbed again to the masthead, the soul of
Hector McKaye would thrill.

"Guid lads! My bonny brave lads!" he would murmur aloud, with just a
touch of his parents' accent, and press a button which discharged an
ancient brass cannon mounted at the edge of the cliff. Whenever he saw
one of his ships in the offing--and he could identify his ships as far
as he could see them--he ordered the gardener to load this cannon.

Presently the masters began to dip the house-flag when outward bound,
and discovered that, whether The Laird sat at his desk in the mill
office or watched from the cliff, they drew an answering salute.

This was their hail and farewell.

One morning, the barkentine Hathor, towing out for Delagoa Bay, dipped
her house-flag, and the watch at their stations bent their gaze upon
the house on the cliff. Long they waited but no answering salute
greeted the acknowledgment of their affectionate and willing service.

The mate's glance met the master's.