“When did you tell him I was the Earl of Ivy?”

Kinney ran his fingers through his hair and groaned dismally.

“That was before the boat started,” he said; “it was only a joke.  He didn’t seem to be interested in my conversation, so I thought I’d liven it up a bit by saying I was a friend of Lord Ivy’s.  And you happened to pass, and I happened to remember Mrs. Shaw saying you looked like a British peer, so I said:  ‘That is my friend Lord Ivy.’  I said I was your secretary, and he seemed greatly interested, and—­” Kinney added dismally, “I talked too much.  I am so sorry,” he begged.  “It’s going to be awful for you!” His eyes suddenly lit with hope.  “Unless,” he whispered, “we can escape!”

The same thought was in my mind, but the idea was absurd, and impracticable.  I knew there was no escape.  I knew we were sentenced at sunrise to a most humiliating and disgraceful experience.  The newspapers would regard anything that concerned Lord Ivy as news.  In my turn I also saw the hideous headlines.  What would my father and mother at Fairport think; what would my old friends there think; and, what was of even greater importance, how would Joyce & Carboy act?  What chance was there left me, after I had been arrested as an impostor, to become a stenographer in the law courts—­in time, a member of the bar?  But I found that what, for the moment, distressed me most was that the lovely lady would consider me a knave or a fool.  The thought made me exclaim with exasperation.  Had it been possible to abandon Kinney, I would have dropped overboard and made for shore.  The night was warm and foggy, and the short journey to land, to one who had been brought up like a duck, meant nothing more than a wetting.  But I did not see how I could desert Kinney.

“Can you swim?” I asked.

“Of course not!” he answered gloomily; “and, besides,” he added, “our names are on our suitcases.  We couldn’t take them with us, and they’d find out who we are.  If we could only steal a boat!” he exclaimed eagerly—­“one of those on the davits,” he urged—­“we could put our suitcases in it and then, after every one is asleep, we could lower it into the water.”

The smallest boat on board was certified to hold twenty-five persons, and without waking the entire ship’s company we could as easily have moved the chart-room.  This I pointed out.

“Don’t make objections!” Kinney cried petulantly.  He was rapidly recovering his spirits.  The imminence of danger seemed to inspire him.

“Think!” he commanded.  “Think of some way by which we can get off this boat before she reaches New Bedford.  We must! We must not be arrested!  It would be too awful!” He interrupted himself with an excited exclamation.

“I have it!” he whispered hoarsely:  “I will ring in the fire-alarm!  The crew will run to quarters.  The boats will be lowered.  We will cut one of them adrift.  In the confusion—­”