Part 19

“Why it's Harry Custer!” he said with a laugh that, however, ended in a sigh. “I didn't recognize you in this half light.” He then glanced curiously toward the diffident young man, as if to identify another possible old acquaintance.

“Well, I spotted you from the first,” said Custer, “though I ain't seen you since we were in Scott's Camp together. That's ten years ago. You're lookin' at HIM,” he continued, following the consul's wandering eye. “Well, it's about him that I came to see you. This yer's a McHulish--a genuine McHulish!”

He paused, as if to give effect to this statement. But the name apparently offered no thrilling suggestion to the consul, who regarded the young man closely for further explanation. He was a fair-faced youth of about twenty years, with pale reddish-brown eyes, dark hair reddish at the roots, and a singular white and pink waxiness of oval cheek, which, however, narrowed suddenly at the angle of the jaw, and fell away with the retreating chin.

“Yes,” continued Custer; “I oughter say the ONLY McHulish. He is the direct heir--and of royal descent! He's one of them McHulishes whose name in them old history times was enough to whoop up the boys and make 'em paint the town red. A regular campaign boomer--the old McHulish was. Stump speeches and brass-bands warn't in it with the boys when HE was around. They'd go their bottom dollar and last cartridge--if they'd had cartridges in them days--on him. That was the regular McHulish gait. And Malcolm there's the last of 'em--got the same style of features, too.”

Ludicrous as the situation was, it struck the consul dimly, as through fog and darkness, that the features of the young man were not unfamiliar, and indeed had looked out upon him dimly and vaguely at various times, from various historic canvases. It was the face of complacent fatuity, incompetency, and inconstancy, which had dragged down strength, competency, and constancy to its own idiotic fate and levels,--a face for whose weaknesses valor and beauty had not only sacrificed themselves, but made things equally unpleasant to a great many minor virtues. Nevertheless, the consul, with an amused sense of its ridiculous incongruity to the grim Scottish Sabbath procession in the street, and the fog-bound volumes of admiralty law in the room, smiled affably.

“Of course our young friend has no desire to test the magic of his name here, in these degenerate days.”

“No,” said Custer complacently; “though between you and me, old man, there's always no tellin' what might turn up over in this yer monarchy. Things of course are different over our way. But jest now Malcolm will be satisfied to take the title and property to which he's rightful heir.”

The consul's face fell. Alas! it was only the old, old story. Its endless repetitions and variations had been familiar to him even in his youth and in his own land. “Ef that man had his rights,” had once been pointed out to him in a wild Western camp, “he'd be now sittin' in scarlet on the right of the Queen of England!” The gentleman who was indicated in this apocalyptical vision, it appeared, simply bore a singular likeness to a reigning Hanoverian family, which for some unexplained reason he had contented himself with bearing with fortitude and patience. But it was in his official capacity that the consul's experience had been the most trying. At times it had seemed to him that much of the real property and peerage of Great Britain was the inherited right of penniless American republicans who had hitherto refrained from presenting their legal claims, and that the habitual first duty of generations of British noblemen on coming into their estates and titles was to ship their heirs and next of kin to America, and then forget all about them. He had listened patiently to claims to positions more or less exalted,--claims often presented with ingenuous sophistry or pathetic simplicity, prosecuted with great good humor, and abandoned with invincible cheerfulness; but they seldom culminated more seriously than in the disbursement of a few dollars by the consul to enable the rightful owner of millions to procure a steerage passage back to his previous democratic retirement. There had been others, less sincere but more pretentious in quality, to whom, however, a letter to the Heralds' College in London was all sufficient, and who, on payment of various fees and emoluments, were enabled to stagger back to New York or Boston with certain unclaimed and forgotten luggage which a more gallant ancestor had scorned to bring with him into the new life, or had thrown aside in his undue haste to make them citizens of the republic. Still, all this had grown monotonous and wearisome, and was disappointing as coming through the intervention of an old friend who ought to know better.

“Of course you have already had legal opinion on the subject over there,” said the consul, with a sigh, “but here, you know, you ought first to get some professional advice from those acquainted with Scotch procedure. But perhaps you have that too.”

“No,” said Custer cheerfully. “Why, it ain't only two months ago that I first saw Malcolm. Tumbled over him on his own farm jest out of MacCorkleville, Kentucky, where he and his fathers before him had been livin' nigh a hundred years--yes, A HUNDRED YEARS, by Jove! ever since they first emigrated to the country. Had a talk over it; saw an old Bible about as big and as used up as that,”--lifting the well-worn consular Bible,--“with dates in it, and heard the whole story. And here we are.”

“And you have consulted no lawyer?” gasped the consul.

“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?”

“Well,” said Custer, settling himself comfortably back in his chair again, “that depends. Do you remember the time that we jumped them Mexican claims on the North Fork--the time them greasers wanted to take in the whole river-bank because they'd found gold on one of the upper bars? Seems to me we jest went peaceful-like over there one moonshiny night, and took up THEIR stakes and set down OURS. Seems to me YOU were one of the party.”

“That was in our own country,” returned the consul hastily, “and was an indefensible act, even in a lawless frontier civilization. But you are surely not mad enough even to conceive of such a thing HERE!”

“Keep your hair on, Jack,” said Custer lazily. “What's the matter with constitutional methods, eh? Do you remember the time when we didn't like Pueblo rules, and we laid out Eureka City on their lines, and whooped up the Mexicans and diggers to elect mayor and aldermen, and put the city front on Juanita Creek, and then corraled it for water lots? Seems to me you were county clerk then. Now who's to keep Dick Macgregor and Joe Hamilton, that are both up the Nile now, from droppin' in over here to see Malcolm in his own house? Who's goin' to object to Wallace or Baird, who are on this side, doin' the Eytalian lakes, from comin' here on their way home; or Watson and Moore and Timley, that are livin' over in Paris, from joinin' the boys in givin' Malcolm a housewarmin' in his old home? What's to keep the whole syndicate from gatherin' at Kelpie Island up here off the west coast, among the tombs of Malcolm's ancestors, and fixin' up things generally with the clan?”

“Only one thing,” said the consul, with a gravity which he nevertheless felt might be a mistaken attitude. “You shouldn't have told ME about it. For if, as your old friend, I cannot keep you from committing an unconceivable folly, as the American consul here it will be my first duty to give notice to our legation, and perhaps warn the authorities. And you may be sure I will do it.”

To his surprise Custer leaned forward and pressed his hand with an expression of cheerful relief. “That's so, old pard; I reckoned on it. In fact, I told Malcolm that that would be about your gait. Of course you couldn't do otherwise. And it would have been playin' it rather low down on you to have left you out in the cold--without even THAT show in the game. For what you will do in warnin' the other fellows, don't you see, will just waken up the clan. It's better than a campaign circular.”

“Don't be too sure of that,” said the consul, with a half-hysterical laugh. “But we won't consider so lamentable a contingency. Come and dine with me, both of you, and we'll discuss the only thing worth discussing,--your LEGAL rights,--and you can tell me your whole story, which, by the way, I haven't heard.”

“Sorry, Jack, but it can't be done,” said Custer, with his first approach to seriousness of manner. “You see, we'd made up our mind not to come here again after this first call. We ain't goin' to compromise you.”

“I am the best judge of that,” returned the consul dryly. Then suddenly changing his manner, he grasped Custer's hands with both his own. “Come, Harry,” he said earnestly; “I will not believe that this is not a joke, but I beg of you to promise me one thing,--do not move a step further in this matter without legal counsel. I will give you a letter to a legal friend of mine--a man of affairs, a man of the world, and a Scot as typical, perhaps, as any you have mentioned. State your LEGAL case to him--only that; but his opinion will show you also, if I am not mistaken, the folly of your depending upon any sectional or historical sentiment in this matter.”

Without waiting for a reply, he sat down and hastily wrote a few lines to a friendly local magnate. When he had handed the note to Custer, the latter looked at the address, and showed it to his young companion.