I opened the porthole and shoving my head through was intensely pleased to see the _Stella_ under easy steam about a mile astern. I waved a towel as a signal to the skipper to close up, and having edged it and left it fluttering, I looked carefully to see that my revolver was loaded, and sat down to speculate as to what form the crisis would take. As the _Stella_ could steam two knots to the _Rampallo’s_ one, a few minutes after my signal was observed would bring matters to a head. But those minutes might bring trouble my way, of course. The first sign of it was a hurried trampling of feet on the deck over my head, followed almost directly by a loud knocking at my cabin door and an angry demand for me to open it. I let them knock and call as they pleased and then some one said that the door was to be broken in. But I did not wish that to be done and did wish to make delay, so I rapped back loudly with the butt of my revolver. “Open the door at once,” came in loud angry tones. Putting my handkerchief to my mouth I yelled back a lot of muffled unintelligible gibberish. An altercation followed in which they continued to call to me to open and I replied with the same sort of rot and played with the bolts as if fumbling in an attempt to unfasten them. In this way I gained two or three invaluable minutes, and a glance out of the porthole showed me that the _Stella_ was coming up very fast. Their impatience drove them to act at last; and the first blow was struck to force the way in. “Wait. I’ll open it,” I shouted. I drew the bolts and stepped back as a hail came across the water in Burroughs’ stentorian tones. There are many ways of showing astonishment, and most of them were conspicuous as the door flew open and four men started to rush in and then jumped back from my levelled weapon. “Well, gentlemen, I should like to know what the devil you mean by kidnapping me in this way,” I sang out and then, to their further astonishment, I burst out laughing. If my life had depended upon my keeping serious, I could not have helped laughing at the ridiculous figures they cut. It was not so much their boundless amazement at seeing me instead of the king, nor their quick retreat from my weapon, but their general appearance which was so irresistibly comic. They wore neither coat, waistcoat, nor collar, their trousers were rolled up to the knees, in their shirts of finest linen were gold studs and the sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, their boots were faultless in fit, all four wore gloves, and two of them carried pince-nez; while from the top to toe they were smothered in a mixture of machine oil, perspiration and coal dust. They looked for all the world like amateur greasers badly made up and coming straight from the comic opera stage. “Who are you and where is----” stammered one of them, when a companion stopped him and stepped forward. “Leave this to me,” he said and then to me: “Who are you?”