“But the strangest part was that our ship didn’t fly the English flag,” said the boy. “At the masthead was a flag I’d never seen, red and white with a blue field filled with stars in the corner. What country’s flag is that?” Pearson thought for a moment. “There’s no such flag,” he said finally. “I know them all, and there’s none like that. The rest of your dream may come true, but not that about the flag. Come, let’s be walking back to Arbigland.” Although John Paul’s father came of peaceful farmer and fisher folk who lived about Solway Firth, his mother had been a “Highland lassie,” descended from one of the fighting clans in the Grampian Hills. The boy had much of the Highlander’s love of wild adventure, and found it hard to live the simple life of the fishing village. The sea appealed to him, and he much preferred it to the small Scotch parish school. His family were poor, and as soon as he was able he was set to steering fishing yawls and hauling lines. At twelve he was as sturdy and capable as most boys at twenty. Many men in Arbigland had heard John Paul beg his father to let him cross the Solway to the port of Whitehaven and ship on some vessel bound for America, where his older brother William had found a new home. But his father saw no opening for his younger son in such a life. All the way back to town that afternoon the boy told Lieutenant Pearson of his great desire, and the young officer said he would try to help him. The boy’s chance, however, came in another way. A few days later it chanced that Mr. James Younger, a big ship-owner, was on the landing-place of Arbigland when some of the villagers caught sight of a small fishing yawl beating up against a stiff northeast squall, trying to gain the shelter of the little tidal creek that formed the harbor of the town. Mr. Younger looked long at the boat and then shook his head. “I don’t think she’ll do it,” he said dubiously. Yet the boat came on, and he could soon see that the only crew were a man and a boy. The boy was steering, handling the sheets and giving orders, while the man simply sat on the gunwale to trim the boat. “Who’s the boy?” asked the ship-owner. “John Paul,” said a bystander. “That’s his father there.” Mr. Younger looked at the man pointed out, who was standing near, and who did not seem to be in the least alarmed. “Are you the lad’s father?” he asked. The man looked up and nodded. “Yes, that’s my boy John conning the boat,” said he. “He’ll fetch her in. This isn’t much of a squall for him!”