"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 any thing 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 entrusted 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?"
"In that case," said I, "the game is up, and the whole scheme exploded. I would as soon undertake to evoke the ghost of Crœsus."