“Then they’ll be watchin’ the Tarlington like terriers at a rat-hole,” exclaimed the engineer.
“No, they won’t,” cried O’Shea with tremendous earnestness. “Do ye mind how we slipped out of Charleston Harbor in the Hercules steamer, bound on the filibusterin’ expedition to Honduras? ’Twas a successful stratagem, and it could be done in London River.”
“Sure it could,” and Johnny Kent chuckled joyously. “And the king needn’t know anything about it.”
“Of course we will keep it from him if we can,” agreed O’Shea. “I will do anything short of murder to keep him happy and undisturbed. And it would upset him terribly to know that he must be smuggled out of England to dodge the rascals that would keep him at home as a suspected lunatic.”
“We’d better put George Huntley next to this proposition of ours,” suggested Johnny. “He itches to be a red-handed conspirator.”
The ship-broker admired the scheme when it was explained to him. Yes, the old Tyneshire Glen which they had so scornfully declined to purchase was still at her moorings, and they were welcome to use her as a dummy, or decoy, or whatever one might choose to call it. O’Shea could pretend to load her, he could send as many people on board as he liked, and put a gang of mechanics at work all over the bally old hooker, said Huntley. If the enemies of King Osmond I took it for granted that the Tyneshire Glen was the ship selected to carry him off to Trinadaro, that was their own lookout. It was a regular Yankee trick, by Jove!
O’Shea and Johnny Kent took great care to avoid being seen in the vicinity of the Tarlington. Such inspection and supervision as were necessary they contrived to attend to after dark. The king was up to his ears in urgent business and was easily persuaded to leave the whole conduct of the ship’s affairs in their capable hands and to waive preliminary visits to the East India Docks.
O’Shea employed a Scotch engineer, who understood that his wages depended on his taciturnity, to oversee such repair work as the Tarlington needed, and to keep steam in the donkey-boilers.
All signs indicated that the Tarlington was preparing for one of her customary voyages to Australia. Soon the cargo began to stream into her hatches. The ostensible destinations of the truck-loads of cases and crates and bales of merchandise were Sydney, Melbourne, Wellington, Fremantle, and so on. One might read the names of the consignees neatly stencilled on every package. This was done under the eye of Captain O’Shea, who, in his time, had loaded hundreds of boxes of rifles and cartridges innocently labelled “Condensed Milk,” “Prime Virginia Hams,” and “Farming Tools.”
But the place to find roaring, ostentatious activity was on board the old Tyneshire Glen. This rusty steamer fairly hummed. Captain O’Shea visited her daily, and Johnny Kent hustled an engine-room crew with loud and bitter words. It appeared as though the ship must be in a great hurry to go to sea. While they were stirring up as much pretended industry as possible, the question of a cargo was not overlooked. It was shoved on board as fast as the longshoremen in the holds could handle it. Nor did these brawny toilers know that all these stout wooden boxes so plainly marked and consigned to Trinadaro “via S.S. Tyneshire Glen” contained only bricks, sand, stones, and scrap-iron.