McKinnon, for she was quick to realize her husband’s assets in the way of family connections and genuine ability, and she carried herself as if she were the accepted niece, by marriage, of the Laird of Dunsany. Other mates’ wives called on her, more out of curiosity than kindness, but she would have none of them and treated them coldly. Her demeanor impressed the visitors, as it had already impressed the landlady, and the latter bruited the story that her lodger was the daughter of a “Hielan’ Chief—somewhat rejuced in circumstances.” Mrs. McKenzie did not deny the story; she rather accepted it and even hinted at it in casual conversation with gossipy callers.

Alec was a first-class chief officer, but that wasn’t good enough for Janet. She longed for the day when she could be referred to as “Mrs. McKenzie—wife of Captain McKenzie of the S.S. So-and-so,” and she worked skilfully to that end. After much manœuvering, she struck up an acquaintanceship with Mrs. Duncan, wife of the marine superintendent of the Sutton Line, and never missed an opportunity to impress upon that simple lady the fact that Alec was a nephew of Sir Alastair McKenzie, and brother to David McKenzie the ship-owner on Bothwell street.

Though McKenzie longed for promotion, yet he was cursed with a sailor’s bashfulness in seeking office, and of his own volition he would make no move which would cause his skipper to eye him askance as a man to be watched. He had known over-ambitious mates who had been “worked out” of the Line by superiors who felt that their positions were imperilled by such aspiring underlings, and he abhorred the thought of being classed as an “owner licker.” But Janet had no such scruples. She was out to speed the day, and before she had been a year married, she had called on her late employer, Baillie Ross, and sought his interest in Alec’s favor. Ross was climbing in municipal politics and had recently been elected a director of the Sutton Line, and he appreciated Janet’s efforts to “rise in the warl’.” At the first opportunity, he casually mentioned to the Managing Director of Suttons’ that they had “a maist promisin’ young officer in Mr. McKinzie, chief mate o’ the Ansonia. He’s a nephew o’ Sir Alastair McKinzie an’ a brither tae David McKinzie—the risin’ ship-broker. He wad mak’ a fine upstaundin’ Captun fur wan o’ yer boats some day, and I wad like tae see him get on!”

The Managing Director was wise in his day and generation and made a note of McKenzie’s name, but he was too much of a Scotch business man to promote officers unless they had ability. Captain Duncan was called in one day and engaged in casual conversation by the manager. “What do you know of McKenzie, chief officer of the Ansonia?” Duncan had been primed by his wife. “A fine smert officer, sir,” answered the marine superintendent. “Keeps a nate shup and always attends to his wark.”

“Drink?”

“No, sir! I’ve never heard tell o’ him bein’ a man that used liquor.”

“How does he stand in seniority?”

“There’s twa or three mates ahead o’ him in length o’ service, but nane ahead in smertness. He’s well connectit, sir. Nephew tae Sir Alastair McKenzie and he’s merrid on a Hielan’ Chief’s dochter—a fine bonny leddy, sir!”

The Managing Director turned over a fyle of papers.

“McCallum, master of the Trantonia, has knocked the bows off his ship in going out of Philadelphia and it has cost us a lot of money. When the Ansonia comes in this time, you can find a new chief officer for her. We’ll sack McCallum and give McKenzie command of the Trantonia.”

Duncan told his wife the news that evening over the tea table and that worthy lady bustled over with the tidings to Janet. “Mrs. McKenzie,” she gasped, blowing and puffing as she flopped down in Janet’s parlor-bedroom. “Jeck cam’ hame th’ nicht an’ tells me yer husband’s tae be made captun o’ th’ Trantonia! Ye’ll can ca’ yersel’ Mistress Captun McKenzie efter this!”

Janet felt like embracing her visitor, but restrained her delight and murmured. “So kind of you to come over and tell me, Mrs. Duncan. I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I must write to-night and inform his uncle, Sir Alastair, of the promotion”—the latter was a white fib for Mrs. Duncan’s benefit—“he’ll be pleased, I’m sure.”

When Alec arrived home, he was delighted with his good fortune even though the Trantonia was one of the smallest and oldest steamers in the Line and had long been relegated to the cargo trade. But she was a ship, and size made no difference in the status of ship-masters. The pay—seventeen pounds per month—would enable them to take up house. Everything was glorious and Alec marvelled at his good luck in being promoted ahead of mates senior to him in service, and he was not above voicing regrets for the unfortunate officers who suffered through his advancement.

“Poor old Johnson,” he said. “Been due for a command these ten years. This will break his heart. Moore is ahead of me and should have got the next vacancy, for he’s a smart, able man. And old McCallum, whose shoes I jump into. I’m awfully sorry for him, for he’s got a large family and nothing laid by. He’ll have to go mate again in his old age or take a job as watchman around the docks. It’s cruel hard, but this is the mill of the British Merchant Service these days. We jump ahead over the bodies of the poor devils who slip on the ladder, and God help those who slip!”

Janet did not share his sympathies and felt rather annoyed. “Why should you fret about them? They wouldn’t worry about you. Now, let’s go and look for a house, dear. There’s a lovely three-room-and-kitchen to let in Ibrox, which is a nice neighbourhood and many Captains live there.” She did not enlighten him as to how he got his promotion.

With Janet spurring him on, McKenzie rose from command to command. For three years he ran the gamut of the Company’s old crocks until, when Donald Percival was born, he was master of a big five-thousand tonner in the River Plate trade and drawing a salary of twenty pounds per month.

McKenzie was happy then, and would have been quite content to remain as master of a Sutton freighter doing the run from Glasgow to the Plate. It was an easy fine-weather trade and he was drawing twenty a month, and occasionally making a pound or two in commissions. There was only his wife and Donald to support, and he had a comfortable home in Ibrox—three rooms and kitchen on the second flat, with hot and cold water, and a vestibule door off the stair landing—a real snug spot. At sea, he was not over-worked, having a purser to write out manifests and bills of lading, and he had plenty of time to read and smoke and take it easy. But with the coming of Donald Percival, Janet’s ambition expanded. “Percival must have a nurse,” she wrote to her husband, “and there are several expenses to be met in connection with our darling boy. You must get out of the cargo trade and into the passenger ships, dear. Mrs. Davidson tells me her husband is getting thirty pounds a month as captain of the Zealandia in the Canadian emigrant service. You must think of your connections. I shudder when I imagine you coming up from Buenos Ayres with your ship full of smelly cattle and sheep ... the passenger ships are more genteel ... the doctor’s bill is quite heavy, dear, and I have retained the services of a good nurse, as I do not feel equal to