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 one of us in his trade or profession will not do for ony consideration whatever. If I run to time I run to time, barrin' always the risks o' the high seas. 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 runnin' '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 , I 've obsairved. Paint was McRimmon's. But you could get round his engines without riskin' your life, an', for all his blindness, I 've seen him reject five flawed intermediates, one after the other, on a nod from me; an' his cattle-fittin's were guaranteed for North