“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?”