"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