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?”
“I am the king of Portugal, of course—Dom Carlos,” I replied, trying to keep my face straight. “Where is Captain Gompez?”
“I am Captain Gompez.”
“I’m afraid you’ve had rather a rough night of it, captain. Stokehole work is trying for an amateur.”
“Who are you, sir? I’m in no mood for fooling.”
“I should think not after such an experience. But as you are the owner of this boat, tell me why you brought me here?”
As I said this I saw one of the younger men—a red-headed, fiery-looking fellow—pull off his gloves furtively and begin to reach for his hip pocket. “If either of you attempts to draw on me I shall fire at whoever’s nearest to me,” I sang out in a very different tone.
Captain Gompez was the nearest and he promptly turned and stopped the fellow who then tried to sneak away.