"Count it as done."

The great feat was ultimately achieved. Jim received notification to the effect that he was now a member on probation. By pre-arrangement with the Immaculate One he turned up one morning at the big building in Pall Mall.

Cholmondeley, who met him in the vestibule, nearly had a fit when he saw him. He had tacitly thrown out a hint that the Huntingdon was correct in the matter of dress--and Jim turned up in his usual garb.

The wind was knocked clean out of Jim's sails by the commissionaire's greeting to Cholmondeley, "Morning, your Lordship."

"What did that guy say?" he exclaimed.

"I forgot to tell you I'm a Viscount," replied Cholmondeley.

"Gee, what's that?"

"It's a t.i.tle conferred on one of my ancestors for something he did for his king. But it's not of the least importance."

Jim felt nervous. He wished he might have fallen through the earth before suggesting that he should become a member of a club of this sort.

Cholmondeley was mildly amused. He had fought tooth and nail against the prejudices of some of the blue bloods, who had never heard of James Conlan in their lives and had looked him up in Burke in vain. Cholmondeley, half-way through his adventure, was beginning to enjoy it. He had come to like Jim immensely, though the latter's speech at times wounded his tender susceptibilities.

"My deah fellah, we have a stormy--ah--pa.s.sage to weather. If I may be allowed to tender a little advice, don't talk too much--yet."

Jim's brows clouded.

"I get you. They won't like my kind of chin-music?"

"They certainly will not. Let us now have a drink to celebrate this extraordinary occasion."

They were sitting in the lounge when a boy came in with a telegram.

"Lord 'Chum-ley'!" he yelled.

He eventually spotted Cholmondeley and gave him the telegram. Jim's eyes opened wide.

"Say, that ain't your name, is it?"

Cholmondeley nodded.

"Wal, if that don't beat the band!"

A man that could make "Chumley" out of Cholmondeley was certainly a juggler with letters.

"Why in h.e.l.l do you spell it that way?"

"Euphony, my deah chap--euphony!"

Who "Euphony" might have been Jim hadn't the foggiest notion. He relapsed into a moody silence, wishing the club at the bottom of the sea and himself back at Medicine Bow, where men p.r.o.nounced words in the way they were spelt--more or less.

Jim's career in that club was anything but smooth. Under the wing of Cholmondeley he was saved from absolute ostracism. Two weeks of utter purgatory were lived through, but Cholmondeley was staunch. Every day he turned up at the club and bade Jim, on peril of his life, do likewise.

"Stick it out, Conlan," he argued. "They're expecting you to run away and die with humiliation. When they discover you are not a--what was the word you used?--ah--quitter--they'll begin to appreciate you."

Jim hung on. Even when Cholmondeley was not present he used the club. His personality began to have effect, and he soon made two or three firm friends. One of these was the Honorable Claude Featherstone, a healthy, good-looking youth, without a trace of sn.o.bbishness or social pride in his composition. He had been the first to come to Jim with extended hand.

"You're American, aren't you?"

"Nope, I'm English all right, but America's my country."

Claude's eyes traveled over Jim's muscular figure.

"Ye G.o.ds! they breed 'em big where you come from. I don't think I'll try catch-as-catch-can with you. What do you think of this menagerie of ours?

That fat man over there is the Duke of Aberdale. If he comes and tells you a tale about having left his purse at home--beware!"

Claude's acquaintanceship ripened into intimate friendship. It may have been pure hero-worship, but the fact remained that he thought Jim the finest specimen of manhood he had ever known. Jim, on the other hand, began to drop a few of his early prejudices. He came to realize that all men have something in common, and that accident of birth placed no insuperable bar between one and another. Once penetrate that icy reserve, and more often than not there was a stout heart behind it.

Jim began to get popular. It was rumored he was fabulously wealthy--a slight exaggeration--and this helped him through, for the money-worship fetish prevailed even among "n.o.ble lords." Cholmondeley, who knew all the ropes in this intricate mesh of British social life, intimated that a peerage might be bought for 50,000. But Jim wasn't "taking any of that dope."

"It won't make my blood any bluer, I guess," he said.

In two months he had thoroughly established himself--a plebeian had taken root in a forest of belted earls and lisping aristocrats. But it stopped at that. A retired "cowboy" was all very well in a club. If he chose to take up "gun-throwing" or garrotting, there was always a score or two of hefty servants to deal with him; but in a man's home, with wives and daughters present, well----! So Jim's meteoric social ascent went no farther than that. Even Cholmondeley, who was his eternal debtor, never took him to house parties. Jim had introspection enough to see the barrier.

It was towards the end of winter that Jim created a commotion which was nearly the cause of his being "blackballed." But for the intervention of his considerable circle of admirers, who believed his action to be justified, and threatened to resign _en bloc_ if the matter were not quashed, Jim would have shaken the dust of the Huntingdon from his feet.

It was in the afternoon, and a trio of men were seeking for a fourth to make up a card party. Seeing Jim lounging on a settee they invited him to join in. He rather reluctantly a.s.sented, for one of the players was Meredith, a man he disliked intensely, which dislike was thoroughly reciprocated.

They played all the afternoon, and Meredith won steadily. He talked a lot about his abnormal luck, but one man present seemed to be constantly on the fidget. Jim had been weaned on cards in a place where gambling was the salt of life, and "tinhorns" were as plentiful as mosquitoes in summer. He kept his eyes on the slim, nimble hands of Meredith, and what he saw did not please him.

Meredith was in the middle of a deal when Jim suddenly flung his cards across the table and stood up.

"I'm through with this," he growled.

The other players gasped, and Meredith's brow contracted. By this time the room was full of members lounging and talking before dinner. The tone of Jim's voice suggested that something was wrong.

"What's the matter?" asked one of the players.

"I don't like the deal."

Meredith leaped from his chair.

"Do you dare insinuate...."

"I don't insinuate nothin'. I jest ain't playin' this hand."

Claude came behind him.

"Careful, Jim," he whispered. "You are making a very serious accusation."

Meredith came across and stood within a foot of Jim's taut face.

"Mr. Conlan," he said, "I am waiting for an explanation."

"Where I come from," said Jim grimly, "men who slip cards that way are lynched on the nearest tree."