The 44 was old; she was homely; she was rickety; but Bartholomew Mullen wiped her battered nose as deferentially as if she had been a spick-span, spider-driver, tail-truck mail-racer. She wasn't much the 44. But in those days Bartholomew wasn't much: and the 44 was Bartholomew's. "How is she steaming, Bartholomew?" I sang out; he was right in the middle of her.