“I don’t know and I’m sure I don’t care,” bitterly returned the affrighted Thompson. “I was an ass to consent to this make-believe job.”
“But how did you two kings get mixed?” groaned O’Shea. “You’re in the wrong ship. Have ye not sense enough to fathom that much? You were supposed to go aboard the Tyneshire Glen, ye old blunderer.”
“The man who drove the carriage told me this was the Tyneshire Glen. I had to take his word for it. How was I to know one ship from the other in the dark? I was told to pretend I was the genuine king, wasn’t I? So I played the part as well as I could.”
“Ye played it right up to the hilt. My chief officer will vouch for that,” and O’Shea held his head between his hands. He sent for Johnny Kent and briefly announced:
“We are shy one king, Johnny. The deal has been switched on us somehow. Our boss was left behind.”
“Great sufferin’ Cæsar’s ghost, Cap’n Mike!” gasped the other. “Say it slow. Spell it out. Make signs if you’re choked up so that you can’t talk plain.”
“The real king went in the discard, Johnny. We’ve fetched the dummy to sea. The one that came aboard was the other one.”
“Then what in blazes became of our beloved King Osmond the First?” cried Johnny.
“You can search me. Maybe his affectionate relatives have their hooks in him by now and have started him on the road to the brain college.”
“It ain’t reasonable for us to keep on our course for Trinadaro without the boss,” suggested the chief engineer. “This is his ship and cargo.”