“On the Quay,” replied Murray in a voice that neither encouraged nor discouraged.

“Where,” asked Keith eagerly.

“Corner of St. John’s Lane.”

“That’s my corner,” cried Keith.  “I live in the lane, and we have the same way home.”

“All right,” was Murray’s only answer, which Keith accepted in the affirmative.

Little more was said until they reached the top of the hill above Carl Johan Square, when Keith explained that he always kept to the left along the shore of Lake Maelaren.

“I always take the other way,” rejoined Murray, suiting his actions to his words.

“All right,” said Keith in his turn, going along toward the saltwater side of the harbour as if it had been the route of his own choice.  They stopped for a moment to watch the sloops in the fish market loaded almost to the point of foundering with live fish.  Further out a number of large sailing vessels rode at anchor.  Still further away, where the southern shore drew close to the point of the island with the turreted red fort, a big black steamer was seen slowly creeping toward its landing place at the Quay.  For a moment Murray studied it intently, shading his eyes in sailor fashion to see better.

“That’s one of our steamers,” he said at last.

“Do you mean you own it,” gasped Keith incredulously.

“The company does,” explained Murray.

“Which company?”

“The one of which my father is managing director.”

“Are there many of them,” Keith asked to be polite.  It sounded too much like a fairy tale.

“Seven,” replied Murray casually.  “They are all painted black and sail on foreign ports.”

“Did you ever travel on one,” inquired Keith with something like awe in his voice.

“Yes,” said the slim youngster by his side as if it had been the most natural thing in the world.  “Many times, as far as the pilot station, with papa.  And last summer he took me along on a real journey to England.  That’s where our family comes from, and we were gone three whole weeks.”

“Were you scared,” Keith asked almost in a whisper.

“No.”  Murray shook his head with quick assurance.  “That is, not much.  We had a storm in the North Sea coming back, but papa said it was nothing to be afraid of, and for a while I was too sick to care.”

“Sick!” Keith echoed.  “And were you not awfully scared?”

“No,” Murray insisted, looking rather pleased.  “Not much.”

Keith was too overwhelmed to ask more questions just then.  The rest of the way home was traversed in silence.  At the corner of the lane they parted with a mutual nod.  Then Keith bolted up the lane and up the three nights of stairs.  Entering the kitchen breathlessly, he yelled out with his cap still on his head:  “I walked home with Murray who lives at the corner and whose papa owns seven ships and who sits next to me in the class.”