But the captain wouldn’t sit down. His eyes glared, his face grew redder, and his lips quivered with animosity. “You come alongside with your toy yacht!” “It’s a toy, captain, that spins along a little faster than this old tub.” “You and your jackanapes dressed up like naval officers, dare to come aboard o’ me.” “That’s splendid, captain. I like that phrase, ‘aboard o’ me.’ I’m delighted to have Clark Russell corroborated from your mouth. Yes, I come aboard o’ you. What then?” “What then? Why, then you try to browbeat me in my own cabin, on my own ship. Who the devil do you think you are, I’d like to know?” “I am Earl Stranleigh of Wychwood.” The captain now, without being told, slowly relapsed into his chair, and gazed across the table at the young man. That latent respect for the aristocracy which permeates even the most democratic of his Britannic Majesty’s subjects caused an instant collapse of the truculence which had threatened an abrupt conclusion to the conference. Curiously enough, the honest captain never thought of questioning the statement, which had been made in a quiet, but very convincing tone. “Earl Stranleigh!” he gasped. “Yes; of Wychwood. We always insist on the Wychwood, though I’m sure I don’t know why, for there isn’t another Lord Stranleigh, and Wychwood is far from being the most important of my estates. Still, there you have it, captain. English life is full of incongruities.” “The _rich_ Lord Stranleigh?” questioned the captain, with an accent on the adjective. “I’ve just told you there’s only one.” “Then why in the name of Neptune are you pirating on the high seas? Is _that_ the way you made your money?” “No, my money was more or less honestly accumulated by my ancestors, but I think their method was highway robbery rather than piracy. The looting of land that didn’t belong to them seemed to occupy their spare time, and so, what with the rise of manufacturing cities in the midlands, on portions of our property, the discovery of coal mines, and what not, my family prospered better than it deserved, and here am I the twentieth-century representative of it.” “If that is so, why the deuce are you meddling in this affair?” “Because I like to see a man minding his own business. The ship which you so worthily sail is mine. I bought her a few days after you left Southampton. Here is the deed of transfer, and here is the letter I spoke of, written to you by Messrs. Sparling & Bilge, informing you that I am the new owner, that I shall be responsible for your pay hereafter, and as a consequence they will be much obliged, as, indeed, so shall I, if you do what I tell you.” The captain read the documents with slow care, then looked up. “It’s Sparling & Bilge’s signature all right, and nobody knows it better than I do, but what about the cargo? Do you intend to unship at Lisbon?” “No, I intend to run it to Plymouth.” “But even if the ship’s yours, the cargo isn’t.”