ho shook his head. And thus the
Mackay ranch came into the nominal possession of Chetwood.

Angus, throttling his pride, held out his hand.

"You've got a good ranch," he said. "I'm glad it's you. If you marry
Jean it will be staying in the family, anyway. I'll be moving out as
soon--"

"You'll be doing nothing of the kind," Chetwood told him. "Do you think
I'm such a dashed cad as that? I'm buying the ranch for you, of course.
You can pay me what I'll pay Braden, when you like, and if you never
feel like it nobody will worry."

Angus stared at him dazedly. For the first time in years his eyes were
misty; but his innate pride still held.

"It's good of you," he said. "Oh, it's _damned_ good of you, but--I
can't stand for it."

"Afraid you'll jolly well have to, my boy," Chetwood grinned cheerfully.
"You can't help yourself, you know."

"But I can't allow--"

"Don't I tell you, you'll have to. Don't be such a bally ass, or strike
me pink if I don't punch your beastly head here and now! Can't you take
a little help from a friend who would take it from you? Mrs. Angus, for
heaven's sake make this lunatic listen to reason!"

Faith laughed happily. "He wouldn't let _me_ help him," she said. "Give
him time, Mr. Chetwood."

As Chetwood waited to comply with the necessary formalities Mr. McGinity
touched him on the arm.

"I want to make a proposition to whoever owns that land--you or Mackay,"
he said. "I'd rather make it to you, because I can see you know more
about business than he does. The Airline isn't any philanthropic
institution, of course, but we'll play fair with you and Mackay."

"Thanks very much," said Chetwood, a twinkle in his eye.

"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
he