Two years at the Gregg Street Public School saw Donald in that exalted
grade of learning known as the "Ex-sixth"--a sort of educational
Valhalla which conferred a brevet rank upon one and caused the
scholars of lesser degree to look up to its members with awe. The
pupils of the Ex-sixth were supposed to have out-grown "the strap,"
and their curriculum led them into the envied precincts of the school
laboratory, where, at certain times, they could do all sorts of
wonderful things with Bunsen burners, and test tubes, and hydrometers
and such like. In this class a fellow could make gun-powder on the sly
and color his knife or a white-metal watch and chain to look like gold
by dipping it in copper sulphate.
Though Donald could boast of no prowess at the strenuous athletic
games of football, running, jumping, etc., yet he developed remarkable
ability as a swimmer. Swimming lessons were compulsory in the Gregg
Street School and a fine swimming bath was attached to the
institution, and the scholars had to take at least two lessons a week
under the tutelage of a master of the natatory art. Young McKenzie
took to the water like a duck, and his proficiency made him a favorite
with the master and a contestant in inter-school matches, and during
his year in the Ex-sixth he won the Glasgow Amateur Swimming Shield
for schoolboys under 14 years of age.
His educational progress at the school had been marked by
commendation and praise. He was an example to all, and on the "Prize
Day" he invariably trotted home loaded with gift-books marked inside
the cover, "Presented to Donald P. McKenzie for Excellence in
Drawing," or maybe it was for history, composition, geography, or some
such subject in which he excelled. The constant repetition of
McKenzie's name on "Prize Day" caused less-favored youngsters to feel
bored and to express their desire to give the clever one "a punch on
th' noase" for being so mentally efficient. This desideratum was
expressed _sotto voce_ and to intimates, as McKenzie's fame as a
fighter had been established since his encounter with Luggy Wilson,
and who McKenzie couldn't fight, his chum, Joak McGlashan could, so he
was treated with considerable respect for a "toff that wuz clever at
learnin'."
Joak's intellectual powers kept him to the Fifth Standard, and it was
doubtful if he would go beyond that grade. He would never have
retained his place in it were it not for Donald, who primed him and
did his home work for him during the time the two were class-mates.
Bos'n McGlashan used to regard with some wonder a prize book which his
son had won for "General Excellence in Drawing" while with Donald in
the Fifth Standard, and wonder still more when during Joak's second
year in the Fifth his drawing percentage was the lowest of any in the
class. Joak explained this inexplicable loss of artistic ability by
stating that he had sprained his thumb and couldn't hold a pencil like
during the prize-winning year, but to Donald he regretted the
deception as one which gave him a lot of unnecessary work in trying to
live up to it. The "sprained thumb" excuse came as a grateful relief.
Though separated by the gulf of learning, Donald and Joak fraternized
as of yore, but Mrs. McKenzie absolutely refused to allow the
McGlashan boy to come to the villa in Maxwell Park. Donald's frequent
lapses from the ethics of polite society in occasional interlardings
of his conversation with "Glesca" vernacular, and in lengthy absences
on Saturdays and holidays from the precincts of the villa, were laid
to the baneful influence of Joak. Joak was blamed for Donald's
home-comings with dirt-bespattered clothing and grimy face. Joak was
the leading spirit in those all-day pilgrimages "doon to the Docks,"
and Joak was to be indicted for sending Donald home one day soaked to
the skin after he had fallen off a raft which they had constructed to
sail on the stagnant waters of a railway cut.
Saturday was a day of days with the boys. It was the day in which they
toured the Port of Glasgow and conned its multifarious shipping; when
they trudged from dock to dock, and basin to basin and appraised the
model and rig of every craft that lay therein. "There's a bonny boat
fur ye noo, Donal'," Joak would say as he eyed a liner with
white-painted upper works and yarded masts. "She's a big yin--an Injia
boat, Ah'm thinkin'!" Donald would scan her with a sailorly eye.
"She's not an India boat, Joak. She's in the North Atlantic trade.
There's no coolies aboard her. There's always coolies on an India
boat. Now, just look at that big sailing-ship beyond the bend. There's
a boat for ye! Let's go down and maybe we can get aboard her." Thus
the pilgrims would go--dodging shunting engines and rumbling
coal-trucks, cargo hoisting cranes and Dock Police--and the middle of
the day would find them trudging up the odoriferous and noisy confines
of M'Clure street, where at number thirty-seven, up three flights of
stone stairs, Donald would find a welcome and a bite to eat from the
big-hearted Mistress McGlashan. Of course, Mrs. McKenzie knew nothing
of these social calls on her son's part. If she did, Donald's Saturday
pilgrimaging would have been ruthlessly cut short.
It was a memorable day when in their prowls around the docks, Donald
and Jock saw a wonderfully fine ship come up the river and moor at the
Sutton Line quay. She was a new purchase of Sutton's--a former London
East India liner, and Suttons had bought her to put her in the New
York trade as an off-set to a brand new ship which their rivals had
just launched. Both boys admitted that the "new yin" was finer than
the _Cardonia_, and both inwardly voiced the hope that their
respective daddies would have the privilege of sailing on the latest
addition to the Sutton fleet.
At school a week later, Donald sought his chum with portentous news.
"My father's going as Captain of the new ship, and she's to be called
the _Sarmania_. Isn't that fine, Joak?"
Next morning young McGlashan had news. "Ma faither's gaun as bos'n o'
th' new yin, Donal'. He told me this morrn, an' he's gey prood. She's
th' finest shup oot th' Clyde, he says!"
When Captain McKenzie discussed the new ship with his wife, Donald
showed a surprising knowledge of the vessel's rig, design and tonnage.
"By George, young man," exclaimed the father, "how do you happen to
know so much about the ship?"
Mrs. McKenzie laughed. "What is there he doesn't know?" she said. "Why
he spends all his Saturdays and holidays wandering around the docks
with that McGlashan imp and I can't prevent him. I'm always in fear
that he'll be killed or drowned there some day."
Captain McKenzie looked at his son. "What is the idea?" he enquired.
"Why this craze for dock-wandering and ship-worshipping?"
"Why?" reiterated Donald slowly. "Why? Because I intend to go to sea
myself some day!"
Captain McKenzie looked his son over critically and stroked his beard.
Donald was twelve years old then--a tall, slim, comely lad. He had his
mother's dark hair and large dark brown eyes. The eyes were clear and
sparkling and expressive of the boy's emotions and served to lend
distinction to a face which might otherwise be characterized as
"plain." His forehead was high; the nose was straight and the mouth
large and firm, but there was a pallor to the skin which did not
betoken rugged health, although he was wiry enough. His hands were
small, with long artistic fingers, and as he looked at them, Captain
McKenzie could not imagine those frail hands digging for finger-hold
into the rough canvas of a wet topsail. Nor could he vision this
carefully nurtured lad scrambling aloft on a dark, dirty night to the
dizzy height of a swaying royal-yard, or tugging and hauling at wet
ropes on a sluicing deck. A boy who had been trained in painting,
music, singing, dancing and the culture of the drawing-room to herd
with rough-spoken men who looked upon such accomplishments as
effeminate and worthy only of curseful scorn; a boy that had never
slept anywhere but in a warm, downy bed; who had never wanted for
anything; who had never known cold and hunger; who had been petted and
waited upon by a doting mother--Pah! The sea would kill him ere he had
been a dog-watch in a ship's company!
The father spoke quietly. "Donny, my lad," he said, drawing his son to
his knee, "you must give up that notion. The sea would kill you,
laddie. You're not strong enough for that life, and it's a dog's life
at the best of times. Why, boy, I'd rather be a farmer with a snug
place ashore than skipper of the _Sarmania_ to-day."
"But Nelson was a delicate boy, daddy," protested Donald, "and he came
along all right."
"Yes, Donny, but Nelson was a man in a million. He was a solitary
exception. I've seen poor little shavers go to sea and have to be
taken ashore on a mattress absolutely crocked up for the remainder of
their days. You'd be wasted at sea, laddie. You have ability and
talents far beyond what I have, and if you develop them you should be
wealthy and famous by the time you're my age. No, no, boy! You must
get that sea-fever out of your head. It's no good, believe me!"
"Joak McGlashan's going to sea, Dad, and we both planned to go
together when we were fifteen or sixteen."
The father smiled. "How are you going to work that? McGlashan's folks
could never afford to apprentice him. He'd have to go in the fo'c'sle
as a boy."
"Well, Dad, we planned we might go in a steamer together as deck-boys
and serve our time. The sailing-ships might be too hard for me at
first, but a steamer would be easier--"
The Captain burst into a guffaw. "You think so, eh? Let me tell you
that you'll do more real back-breaking and menial work aboard of a
steamer than you'll do on a sailing-ship. On a steamer! Huh! Shoveling
ashes and cleaning out holes that a man couldn't get into! A dirty
deckboy at the beck and call of every ordinary seaman--and on a
steamer! God forbid! They don't make sailors on steamers, and even if
you served your time in steam and got a master's certificate, there
isn't a ship-owner would give you a ship, nor would you obtain the
respect of officers and crew if you did get one. There's no back-door
for reaching the bridge in sea-faring. You have to serve your time in
sail, and go thro' the mill, otherwise you'd never get to be more than
a common deck-hand no matter how clever you were. There is a
time-keeper down in the wharf office with an Extra Master's
certificate, and he can't get even a second mate's berth. Why? Because
he served his time in steam. He knows all about navigation, but he
couldn't put a square-rigger about, and that has damned him in the
eyes of owners and sailormen. He might have the theory, but he hasn't
the practice, and that cooked his goose. Now, sonny, we'll just drop
all this notion of going to sea and you'll study hard and be an
architect and stay home and keep your mother company. One of us at sea
is enough!"
Donald left the room abruptly and Mrs. McKenzie sat beside her
husband. "I'm so glad you have talked to Donald, Alec," she said.
"He's just crazy about going to sea, and I've heard nothing but ships,
ships, and ships for months. He gloats over that sailing ship picture
there and reads nothing but sea-stories, and I think that he and that
McGlashan boy spend all their spare time around the docks. I hope you
can drive the fancy out of his head."
"All British boys have the fever at some time in their youth," said
the Captain with a laugh. "He'll get over it. He can't go to sea
unless he runs away, and I'm sure he won't do that!"
Upstairs in the privacy of his bedroom, Donald was prone on a sofa
crying bitterly. His dreams and ideals had been ruthlessly smashed. He
felt bitterly the lack of health and strength to do what other boys
could do. How could he face Joak and tell him that he couldn't
accompany him in his sea-faring? It was hard to give up the idea after
dreaming and weaving fancies around it so long. For an hour he lay
alone in his misery, until the father and mother found him and petted
and caressed him back to smiles again. "Don't fret, Donny-boy," said
the father, who understood. He drew the boy to him and brought the
wan, tear-stained face to his shoulder. "I tell you what I'll do,
sonny," he said.