Mort had never seen so many or such fine boats in his life before. They were nearly all built of cedar, and were varnished instead of being painted, the copper fastenings dotting their shining sides with regular lines. The boy gave a great gasp of admiration, and it was some time before he recovered himself sufficiently to ask,— "And which is your boat, uncle?" Mr. Turner pointed to one lying just in front of them. "Oh, what a beauty!" cried Mort. "She’s the best of them all." His uncle smiled a complacent assent, for that was precisely his own opinion. As to beauty of lines, perfection of finish, completeness of outfit, and speed on any tack, he considered the _Gleam_ without a superior on Lake Deschenes, and Mort’s prompt recognition of the fact pleased him as much as the cordial praise of her baby does a young mother. "You are not far from right, my boy," said he. "The _Gleam_ is both a beauty to look at and a good one to go, as you shall see for yourself very soon." The _Gleam_ belonged to the class of boat known as the "St. Lawrence skiff," the swiftest and safest boats of their size—when not over-canvassed—that carry sails. She was about twenty-two feet long, and had a half-deck all round, with a six-inch combing to keep out the water. Two tall masts carried big bat-wing sails, which would have soon toppled her over but for the heavy iron centre-board that kept her stiff in an ordinary breeze. Everything about her was of the best, and Mort thought her the most beautiful object his eyes ever beheld. That afternoon he had his first sail in the _Gleam_, and as, responding perfectly to every puff of the wind and turn of the tiller, she went flying across the lake, his heart thrilled with delight, and became filled with a passionate desire to master the art of handling such a craft. "O uncle, won’t you teach me how to steer and to manage the sails before I go back home?" he pleaded, looking earnestly into Mr. Turner’s face. "Certainly, Mort, certainly," was the kindly reply; "and I think you ought to make a very apt pupil, too." Mr. Turner was altogether as good as his word. He took much pains in initiating Mort into the mysteries of sailing, teaching him the way to tack, when it was permissible to jibe, how to run before the wind, and so forth, until, by the end of the first month, Mort had become tolerably proficient, and could be trusted to manage the _Gleam_ alone in an ordinary breeze. This special privilege he was then allowed to exercise, provided he did not go outside the "boom"—that is, the long line of shackled logs which enclosed the bay where the boathouse stood, and which was intended to keep the saw-logs from stranding on the beach. Inside the boom was a stretch of shallow water nearly a mile long by a quarter of a mile wide, on which plenty of sailing might be had without going out through the gap into the body of the lake.