Jenkins P. Chase let his small bright eyes rove for a moment, and his wise, wizened features were sardonically amused as he said: “We’re in a floating lunatic asylum, where my money is no good. God knows what the crack-brained anarchist in command will do with the ship. He has handed out a jolt to capital, all right. Of course, if you two men can concoct any scheme to win, you’re welcome to fill in a blank check for any sum you like and I’ll see that it is cashed the day we land in New York.” Captain O’Shea clapped a strong hand on the rich man’s bony little shoulder and exclaimed, as though admonishing a foolish child: “Tut, tut! ’Tis nonsense ye talk. We are all in the same boat, and there are women and children amongst us. You must put it out of your head that your life has any special gilt-edged value out here at sea. We sink or swim together. And I am not anxious to chop off me own existence to please this madman of a Professor Ernst Wilhelm Vonderholtz.” “He said something about chucking me overboard,” sighed Jenkins P. Chase. “And he looked as if he meant it,” amiably observed Johnny Kent. With this, the twain bade the millionaire take heart and left him to his unhappy meditations. An idea had come to Johnny Kent and he wished to thrash it over with his comrade in the seclusion of their own room. For a long time they argued it, testing every detail, O’Shea dissuading, but convinced against his will that the thing should be attempted. It was a desperate hazard, a forlorn hope, and gray-haired, honest old Johnny Kent must stake his life. Success meant the recapture of the ship, and the engineer was obstinately determined to undertake it. “You will have to go it alone, Johnny,” said O’Shea, “and I cannot help if things break wrong for you. It will worry the heart out of me to let ye do it.” “Pshaw, Cap’n Mike! A battered old sot like me ain’t worth much to anybody. If I slip up, and they put out my lights, I want to ask one favor of you. Shoot that blankety-blank chemical son of a sea-cook for me, will you? It’ll be my last wish.” “I promise to fill him full of holes, if his gang pots me next minute,” simply replied O’Shea, and they shook hands on it. After dark that night Johnny Kent rummaged in his steamer trunk and fished out an oil-stained suit of blue overalls, his working uniform when in active service. From another bundle he selected two powerful adjustable wrenches which could be concealed in his clothing. While he was thus engaged O’Shea squeezed into the room, affectionately punched him in the ribs, and exclaimed: “To look the part ye must blacken your face and hands. We have no coal-dust, but there are two long drinks in that bottle of Scotch yonder. Let us hurl them into our systems, and I will make good use of the cork.” “And burnt-cork me same as I used to do when we boys played nigger minstrels, Cap’n Mike? You’re wiser than Daniel Webster.”