Less than that, under God, I have not done. More than that,
by God, I will not do! There's no trick o' the trade I'm not
acquaint wi' -'
"'So I've heard,' says McRimmon, dry as a biscuit.
"'But yon matter o' fair rennin"s just my Shekinah, ye'll understand.
I daurna tamper wi' that. Nursing weak engines is fair craftsmanship;
but what the Board ask is cheatin', wi' the risk o' manslaughter
addeetional.' Ye'll note I know my business.
"There was some more talk, an' next week I went aboard the Kite,
twenty-five hunder ton, simple compound, a Black Bird tramp. The
deeper she rode, the better she'd steam. I've snapped as much as
eleven out of her, but eight point three was her fair normal. Good
food forward an' better aft, all indents passed wi'out marginal
remarks, the best coal, new donkeys, and good crews. 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.
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