“Captain O’Shea sends his compliments and regrets that he is detained on board. The ship is ready as soon as you are.”
The king murmured a word or two of thanks. The chief officer carefully assisted him to board the tug, which speedily moved away from the pier and turned to run alongside the Tarlington. The important passenger mounted the steamer’s gangway and stood upon the shadowy deck, whose row of lights had been purposely turned off lest his figure might be discernible from shore.
Captain O’Shea was waiting to get the ship under way. It was no time for ceremony. The business of the moment was to head for the open sea, and beyond the reach of the British law and its officers. A few minutes later, Captain O’Shea hastened aft to greet His Majesty and explain his failure to welcome him on board. Meeting the chief officer, he halted to ask:
“Everything all right, Mr. Arbuthnot? Did he ask for me? Did he give you any orders?”
“All satisfactory, sir. The king said he was very tired and would go to his rooms at once.”
“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?”