The genuine colonists of King Osmond stole on board the Tarlington, singly and by twos and threes, some before she pulled out of the docks, others by boat after she swung into the stream. At the same time the imitation voyagers from the employment agency were making as much noise and bustle as possible as they trooped on board the Tyneshire Glen.
Captain O'Shea intended to convoy the king from the hotel to the Tarlington, but at the last moment he was detained to quell a ruction among a group of drunken firemen in the forecastle. George Huntley had been unexpectedly summoned to the Hotel Cecil to see an American millionaire who was in a great hurry to charter a yacht. O'Shea therefore sent a message to his majesty, directing him to have his carriage driven to a certain landing on the river front of the East India Docks, where he would be met by the chief officer of the Tarlington and escorted aboard the ship.
Within the same hour the dignified elderly clerk by the name of Thompson could have been seen to enter a carriage close by the Hotel Carleton, and those standing near might have heard him tell the driver to go to the steamer Tyneshire Glen, in the East India Docks.
The chief officer of the Tarlington, waiting not far from an electric light at the landing pier abreast of which the steamer was anchored in the stream, felt a certain responsibility for the safe delivery of King Osmond, and was easier in mind when he saw a carriage halt within a few yards of him. The window framed the kindly features, the white mustache and imperial which the chief officer instantly identified. Hastening to assist his majesty from the carriage, he announced apologetically:
"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 immediately backed away from the pier and turned to run alongside the Tarlington. The important passenger mounted the ship's gangway, and stood upon the shadowy deck, whose row of lights had been purposely turned off no lest the figure of the king might be discernible from shore.
Captain O'Shea had delayed on the bridge to get the ship under way as soon as the skipper of the tug sang out to him that his majesty was safely aboard. 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 upriver 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 bound out 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 kidnaped 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 so taken aback that he could only blink and open and shut his mouth. At length he managed to say, in a sort of quavering stage whisper:
"For the love o' Heaven, what has become of the real king? Who mislaid him? Where is he now?"
"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."