“Right's the word, ould Nebucannezzar,” he cried, and heaved up to his feet. “So long, Kitty, woman! S'long! We'll finish it another night though, and then the ould man himself will be houlding the candle.” Outside in the road somebody touched him on the shoulder. It was the young man in the Alpine hat. “My gough! What? Phil!” cried Pete, and he laid hold of him with both hands at once. “I've just finished at King William's and bought a boat,” said Philip, “and I came up to ask you to join me--congers and cods, you know--good fun anyway. Are you willing?” “Willing!” cried Pete. “Am I jumping for joy?” And away they went down the road, swinging their legs together with a lively step. “That's a nice girl, though--Kitty, Kate, what do you call her?” said Phil. “Were you in then? So you saw her dancing?” said Pete eagerly. “Aw, yes, nice,” he said warmly, “nice uncommon,” he added absently, and then with a touch of sadness, “shocking nice!” Presently they heard the pattering of light feet in the darkness behind them, and a voice like a broken cry calling “Pete!” It was Kate. She came up panting and catching her breath in hiccoughs, took Pete's face in both her hands, drew it down to her own face, kissed it on the mouth, and was gone again without a word. VI. Philip had not been a success at school; he had narrowly escaped being a failure. During his earlier years he had shown industry without gifts; during his later years he had shown gifts without industry. His childish saying became his by-word, and half in sport, half in earnest, with a smile on his lips, and a shuddering sense of fascination, he would say when the wind freshened, “The sea's calling me, I must be off.” The blood of the old sea-dog, his mother's father, was strong in him. Idleness led to disaster, and disaster to some disgrace. He was indifferent to both while at school, but shame found him out at home. “You'll be sixteen for spring,” said Auntie Nan, “and what would your poor father say if he were alive? He thought worlds of his boy, and always said what a man he would be some day.” That was the shaft that found Philip. The one passion that burned in his heart like a fire was reverence for the name and the will of his dead father. The big hopes of the broken man had sometimes come as a torture to the boy when the blood of the old salt was rioting within him. But now they came as a spur. Philip went back to school and worked like a slave. There were only three terms left, and it was too late for high honours, but the boy did wonders. He came out well, and the masters were astonished. “After all,” they said, “there's no denying it, the boy Christian must have the gift of genius. There's nothing he might not do.”