“None whatever—­unless we could invent one, and that’s hardly safe; ‘Burke’s Peerage’ has gone through too many editions.  Couldn’t we try the Dormants?”

“That would be rather dangerous in the teeth of the standing orders.  But what do you say to a baronet?  There’s Sir Polloxfen Tremens.  He got himself served the other day to a Nova Scotia baronetcy, with just as much title as you or I have; and he has sported the riband, and dined out on the strength of it ever since.  He’ll join us at once, for he has not a sixpence to lose.”

“Down with him, then,” and we headed the provisional list with the pseudo Orange tawny.

“Now,” said Bob, “it’s quite indispensable, as this is a Highland line, that we should put forward a chief or two.  That has always a great effect upon the English, whose feudal notions are rather of the mistiest, and principally derived from Waverley.”

“Why not write yourself down as the laird of M’Corkindale?” said I.  “I dare say you would not be negatived by a counter-claim.”

“That would hardly do,” replied Bob, “as I intend to be secretary.  After all, what’s the use of thinking about it?  Here goes for an extempore chief;” and the villain wrote down the name of Tavish M’Tavish of Invertavish.

“I say, though,” said I, “we must have a real Highlander on the list.  If we go on this way, it will become a justiciary matter.”

“You’re devilish scrupulous, Gus,” said Bob, who, if left to himself, would have stuck in the names of the heathen gods and goddesses, or borrowed his directors from the Ossianic chronicles, rather than have delayed the prospectus.  “Where the mischief are we to find the men?  I can think of no others likely to go the whole hog; can you?”

“I don’t know a single Celt in Glasgow except old M’Closkie, the drunken porter at the corner of Jamaica Street.”

“He’s the very man!  I suppose, after the manner of his tribe, he will do anything for a pint of whisky.  But what shall we call him?  Jamaica Street, I fear, will hardly do for a designation.”

“Call him THE M’CLOSKIE.  It will be sonorous in the ears of the Saxon!”

“Bravo!” and another chief was added to the roll of the clans.

“Now,” said Bob, “we must put you down.  Recollect, all the management, that is, the allocation, will be intrusted to you.  Augustus—­you haven’t a middle name, I think?—­well then, suppose we interpolate ‘Reginald’; it has a smack of the crusades.  Augustus Reginald Dunshunner, Esq. of—­where, in the name of Munchausen!”

“I’m sure I don’t know.  I never had any land beyond the contents of a flower-pot.  Stay—­I rather think I have a superiority somewhere about Paisley.”

“Just the thing!” cried Bob.  “It’s heritable property, and therefore titular.  What’s the denomination?”

“St. Mirrens.”

“Beautiful!  Dunshunner of St. Mirrens, I give you joy!  Had you discovered that a little sooner—­and I wonder you did not think of it—­we might both of us have had lots of allocations.  These are not the times to conceal hereditary distinctions.  But now comes the serious work.  We must have one or two men of known wealth upon the list.  The chaff is nothing without a decoy-bird.  Now, can’t you help me with a name?”