Mort Henshaw was a boy who had implicit faith in himself. He cherished the firm conviction that whatever any other boy could do came within the range of his capabilities. He had only to find out the way it should be done in order to accomplish it. This was a pretty large view to take of things in general, yet it must be confessed that Mort was not without a fair degree of justification for having what the Scotch would call so good a conceit of himself. Blessed with a strong, symmetrical frame, a quick eye, a sure hand, a perfect constitution, and abundant courage, he came easily by a mastery of the different sports he entered into, and had few equals, and fewer superiors, at cricket, football, lacrosse, baseball, swimming, rowing, and the other amusements of the day. There was one pastime, however, of which, although he had heard much, he knew nothing, and that was sailing. The pretty little stream which ran by his home afforded no facilities for this glorious sport, and the pleasures of it he knew about only from the descriptions of his more fortunate companions. Great, then, was his delight when the spring that found him fifteen years of age brought with it an invitation from one of his uncles to spend the whole summer with him at his cottage on Lake Deschenes, a splendid sheet of water not far from the city of Ottawa. The invitation mentioned, as one of the attractions of the place, that he would be able to have all the sailing that his heart could wish. "Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted Mort, capering about the room with a face beaming like the sun. "All the sailing I want! Just think of it! Won’t that be grand? The very thing I’ve been looking for." "It will be grand, Mort dear," said his mother, "provided you take good care not to run any unnecessary risks. You must do exactly what your uncle tells you, just as if he were your father." "Oh yes, mother, I’ll do that," quickly responded Mort, ready to promise anything in the exuberance of his joy. "I’ll be his crew, you know, and obey orders just as if I were at sea with him." Very impatiently did Mort await the coming of the day when he should set forth for Deschenes. His uncle was principal of the Collegiate Institute at Ottawa, and had three months’ vacation, which he usually spent at the lake in sailing, rowing, bathing, and fishing, until the return of autumn recalled him to his duties. It was the last week in June when Mort arrived at Lake Deschenes, and his first question, after exchanging greetings with his uncle and aunt, was,— "Will you show me your boat, please, uncle?" Smiling at his eagerness, Mr. Turner took him over to the boathouse, where a number of boats and canoes lay upon the floor, or were suspended upon racks against the wall.