The great feat was ultimately achieved. Jim received notification to the effect that he was now a member on probation. By pre-arrangement with the Immaculate One he turned up one morning at the big building in Pall Mall. Cholmondeley, who met him in the vestibule, nearly had a fit when he saw him. He had tacitly thrown out a hint that the Huntingdon was correct in the matter of dress--and Jim turned up in his usual garb. The wind was knocked clean out of Jim's sails by the commissionaire's greeting to Cholmondeley, "Morning, your Lordship." "What did that guy say?" he exclaimed. "I forgot to tell you I'm a Viscount," replied Cholmondeley. "Gee, what's that?" "It's a title conferred on one of my ancestors for something he did for his king. But it's not of the least importance." Jim felt nervous. He wished he might have fallen through the earth before suggesting that he should become a member of a club of this sort. Cholmondeley was mildly amused. He had fought tooth and nail against the prejudices of some of the blue bloods, who had never heard of James Conlan in their lives and had looked him up in Burke in vain. Cholmondeley, half-way through his adventure, was beginning to enjoy it. He had come to like Jim immensely, though the latter's speech at times wounded his tender susceptibilities. "My deah fellah, we have a stormy--ah--passage to weather. If I may be allowed to tender a little advice, don't talk too much--yet." Jim's brows clouded. "I get you. They won't like my kind of chin-music?" "They certainly will not. Let us now have a drink to celebrate this extraordinary occasion." They were sitting in the lounge when a boy came in with a telegram. "Lord 'Chum-ley'!" he yelled. He eventually spotted Cholmondeley and gave him the telegram. Jim's eyes opened wide. "Say, that ain't your name, is it?" Cholmondeley nodded. "Wal, if that don't beat the band!" A man that could make "Chumley" out of Cholmondeley was certainly a juggler with letters. "Why in hell do you spell it that way?" "Euphony, my deah chap--euphony!" Who "Euphony" might have been Jim hadn't the foggiest notion. He relapsed into a moody silence, wishing the club at the bottom of the sea and himself back at Medicine Bow, where men pronounced words in the way they were spelt--more or less. Jim's career in that club was anything but smooth. Under the wing of Cholmondeley he was saved from absolute ostracism. Two weeks of utter purgatory were lived through, but Cholmondeley was staunch. Every day he turned up at the club and bade Jim, on peril of his life, do likewise. "Stick it out, Conlan," he argued. "They're expecting you to run away and die with humiliation. When they discover you are not a--what was the word you used?--ah--quitter--they'll begin to appreciate you."