“The McHulishes,” said an unexpected voice that sounded thin and feminine, “never took any legal decision. From the craggy summits of Glen Crankie he lifted the banner of his forefathers, or raised the war-cry, 'Hulish dhu, ieroe!' from the battlements of Craigiedurrach. And the clan gathered round him with shouts that rent the air. That was the way of it in old times. And the boys whooped him up and stood by him.” It was the diffident young man who had half spoken, half recited, with an odd enthusiasm that even the culminating slang could not make conventional. “That's about the size of it,” said Custer, leaning back in his chair easily with an approving glance at the young man. “And I don't know if that ain't the way to work the thing now.” The consul stared hopelessly from the one to the other. It had always seemed possible that this dreadful mania might develop into actual insanity, and he had little doubt but that the younger man's brain was slightly affected. But this did not account for the delusion and expectations of the elder. Harry Custer, as the consul remembered him, was a level-headed, practical miner, whose leaning to adventure and excitement had not prevented him from being a cool speculator, and he had amassed more than a competency by reason of his judicious foresight and prompt action. Yet he was evidently under the glamour of this madman, although outwardly as lazily self-contained as ever. “Do you mean to tell me,” said the consul in a suppressed voice, “that you two have come here equipped only with a statement of facts and a family Bible, and that you expect to take advantage of a feudal enthusiasm which no longer exists--and perhaps never did exist out of the pages of romance--as a means of claiming estates whose titles have long since been settled by law, and can be claimed only under that tenure? Surely I have misunderstood you. You cannot be in earnest.” “Honest Injun,” said Custer, nodding his head lazily. “We mean it, but not jest that way you've put it. F'r instance, it ain't only us two. This yer thing, ole pard, we're runnin' as a syndicate.” “A syndicate?” echoed the consul. “A syndicate,” repeated Custer. “Half the boys that were at Eagle Camp are in it, and two of Malcolm's neighbors from Kentucky--the regular old Scotch breed like himself; for you know that MacCorkle County was settled by them old Scotch Covenanters, and the folks are Scotch Presbyterians to this day. And for the matter of that, the Eagle boys that are in it are of Scotch descent, or a kind of blend, you know; in fact, I'm half Scotch myself--or Irish,” he added thoughtfully. “So you see that settles your argument about any local opinion, for if them Scots don't know their own people, who does?” “May I ask,” said the consul, with a desperate attempt to preserve his composure, “what you are proposing to do?”