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"She was our big freighter McIntyre was engineer an' I knew she'd come from overhaul not three months. That morn I met McRimmon's head-clerk ye'll not know him fair bitin' his nails off wi' mortification. "'The auld man's gone gyte, says he. 'He's withdrawn the Lammergeyer. "'Maybe he has reasons, says I. "'Reasons! He's daft! "'He'll no be daft till he begins to paint, I said.
"Five-and-twenty thousand pound sterlin'. Noo, I'm fra the North, and I'm not the like to fling money awa' rashly, but I'd gie six months' pay one hunder an' twenty pounds to know who flooded the engine-room of the Grotkau. I'm fairly well acquaint wi' McRimmon's eediosyncrasies, and he'd no hand in it. It was not Calder, for I've asked him, an' he wanted to fight me.
They cut down repairs; they fed crews wi' leavin's an' scrapin's; and, reversin', McRimmon's practice, they hid their defeeciencies wi' paint an' cheap gildin'. Quem Deus vult perrdere prrius dementat, ye remember.
There was nothin' the old man would not do, except paint. That was his deeficulty. Ye could no more draw paint than his last teeth from him. He'd come down to dock, an' his boats a scandal all along the watter, an' he'd whine an' cry an' say they looked all he could desire. Every owner has his non plus ultra, I've obsairved. Paint was McRimmon's.
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