“I wonder should I disturb him?” said O’Shea to himself, hesitating. “’Tis not etiquette to break into his rest. Well, I will go back to the bridge and wait a bit. Maybe he will be sending for me. My place is with the pilot till the ship has poked her way past Gravesend and is clear of this muck of up-river shipping.” The _Tarlington_ found a less crowded reach of the Thames as she passed below Greenwich and her engines began to shove her along at a rapid gait. She had almost picked up full speed and was fairly headed for blue water when the noise of loud and grievous protests arose from the saloon deck. The commotion was so startling that O’Shea bounded down from the bridge and was confronted by a smooth-shaven, slender, elderly man who flourished a false mustache and imperial in his fist as he indignantly cried: “I say, this is all wrong as sure as my name is Thompson. I never bargained with Mr. George Huntley to be kidnapped and taken to sea. I don’t want to go, I tell you. These people tell me that this steamer is bound to some island or other thousands of miles from here. I stand on my rights as an Englishman. I demand that I be taken back to London at once.” O’Shea glared stupidly at the irate clerk so long in the employ of Tavistock & Huntley. For once the resourceful shipmaster was utterly taken aback. He managed to say in a sort of quavering stage whisper: “For the love of heaven, what has become of the real king? Who mislaid him? Where is he now?” “I don’t know and I’m sure I don’t care,” bitterly returned the affrighted Thompson. “I was an ass to consent to this make-believe job.” “But how did you two kings get mixed?” groaned O’Shea. “You’re in the wrong ship. Have ye not sense enough to fathom that much? You were supposed to go aboard the _Tyneshire Glen_, ye old blunderer.” “The man who drove the carriage told me this was the _Tyneshire Glen_. I had to take his word for it. How was I to know one ship from the other in the dark? I was told to pretend I was the genuine king, wasn’t I? So I played the part as well as I could.” “Ye played it right up to the hilt. My chief officer will vouch for that,” and O’Shea held his head between his hands. He sent for Johnny Kent and briefly announced: “We are shy one king, Johnny. The deal has been switched on us somehow. Our boss was left behind.” “Great sufferin’ Cæsar’s ghost, Cap’n Mike!” gasped the other. “Say it slow. Spell it out. Make signs if you’re choked up so that you can’t talk plain.” “The real king went in the discard, Johnny. We’ve fetched the dummy to sea. The one that came aboard was the other one.” “Then what in blazes became of our beloved King Osmond the First?” cried Johnny. “You can search me. Maybe his affectionate relatives have their hooks in him by now and have started him on the road to the brain college.” “It ain’t reasonable for us to keep on our course for Trinadaro without the boss,” suggested the chief engineer. “This is his ship and cargo.”