"Oh, I mean it," Mr. McGinity assured him. "You seem a pretty bright young fellow. If you haven't got too much money to take a good job, I can place you in my department."
"But you see," Chetwood returned, "I've already got a job with your company."
"What?" cried Mr. McGinity. "What kind of a con game is this? What department are you in?"
"I'm a director. Did you ever hear of Sir Eustace Chetwood?"
Mr. McGinity gasped. "Are you trying to kid me? Sir Eustace Chetwood was one of our English directors, but he's dead. And he was about eighty years old."
"Quite right," Chetwood nodded. "He died a few months ago, and by virtue of the shares in your corporation which he left to me, I was elected to fill his place. I'm his nephew, you see. As to the title, it's hereditary, and I can't help it."
"Sir Eustace Chetwood!" gasped Mr. McGinity. "Good Lord!"
"Well, I'm not using either title at present," Chetwood grinned. "Just keep it dark, like a good fellow. I don't want to be plagued by a lot of blighters who can't see me at all as a thirty-dollar ranch hand. My real friends are just beginning to call me 'Bill'—and I like it. I say, Mr. McGinity, if you should ever call me 'Bill,' I'd call you 'Mac'."
"Is that so, Bill?" said Mr. McGinity, who was a gentlemen of easy adjustments.
"It are so, Mac!" Chetwood laughed. "See you later about that proposition. Remember, you are to play fair."