While O’Shea talked, Johnny Kent let his eyes wander to a small table at his elbow. It was covered with magazines, government reports, and newspaper clippings. One of the latter was so placed that he was able to read it from where he sat, and with absorbed interest he perused the following paragraphs:
Colonel Osmond George Sydenham-Leach, of the ancient Norfolk family, has lived on the Continent for the last dozen years, and is better known to the boulevards of Paris than to London. He was never considered eccentric until recently when his claim to the island of Trinadaro in the South Atlantic as a sovereign realm aroused much interest and amusement. He assumed the title of King Osmond I.
It is said that he has created an order of nobility, and that the insignia of the Grand Cross of Trinadaro have been bestowed upon the fortunate gentlemen composing his cabinet and coterie of advisers. A Court Circular is expected to appear shortly, and a diplomatic service will be organized.
Until His Majesty is ready to sail for Trinadaro to occupy his principality, the royal entourage will be found in the state apartments of the Hotel Carleton. Elaborate preparations are in progress for colonizing the island of Trinadaro, and a ship-load of people and material will leave London in a few weeks.
King Osmond I has a very large fortune. He is unmarried, and his estates, at his death, will pass to the children of his only brother, Sir Wilfred Sydenham-Leach of Haselton-on-Trent. The kinfolk of His Majesty are alarmed, so it is reliably reported, lest his wealth may be squandered on this curiously mediæval conception of setting up an independent principality upon an unproductive, volcanic island in mid-ocean which no nation has taken the trouble to annex.
Slowly and carefully Johnny Kent possessed himself of this information with never a flicker of a smile. The solution of the mystery of King Osmond I impressed him as neither grotesque nor curiously mediæval. In all London the King of Trinadaro could not have found two men of readier mind to fall in with his project and pretensions. To play at being a king on a desert island, to have the means to make it all come true—why, thought Johnny Kent, and he knew O’Shea must instantly agree with him, any man worth his salt would jump at the chance.
He was anxious to pass the tidings on to his comrade, and when the conversation slackened he edged in:
“We must be on our way, Cap’n Mike. His Majesty is good-hearted to listen to us, but it ain’t polite to talk his ear off.”
With this speech went so elaborate a wink that O’Shea comprehended that the engineer had something up his sleeve. Their host cordially declared that he must see them again, and made an appointment for ten o’clock of the next forenoon. They took their departure after friendly farewells and steered a course for Blackwall and the tavern of the Jolly Mermaid.
O’Shea was as delighted as a boy to learn that Osmond I was about to found an island kingdom. It was a more attractive revelation than if he had been discovered to be the inconsequential ruler of some effete little domain of Europe. And if one planned to set himself up in business as a sovereign, it was proper to use all the pomp and trappings and ceremony that belonged to the game.