Selected Stories (70 page)

‘We'll drink,' said McPhee slowly, rubbing his chin, ‘to the eternal damnation o' Holdock, Steiner, and Chase.'

Of course I answered ‘Amen', though I had made seven pound ten shillings out of the firm. McPhee's enemies were mine, and I was drinking his Madeira.

‘Ye've heard nothing?' said Janet. ‘Not a word, not a whisper?'

‘Not a word, nor a whisper. On my word, I have not.'

‘Tell him, Mac,' said she; and that is another proof of Janet's goodness
and wifely love. A smaller woman would have babbled first, but Janet is five feet nine in her stockings.

‘We're rich,' said McPhee. I shook hands all round.

‘We're damned rich,' he added. I shook hands all round a second time.

‘I'll go to sea no more – unless – there's no sayin' – a private yacht, maybe – wi' a small an' handy auxiliary.'

‘It's not enough for
that
,' said Janet. ‘We're fair rich – well-to-do, but no more. A new gown for church, and one for the theatre. We'll have it made west.'

‘How much is it?' I asked.

‘Twenty-five thousand pounds.' I drew a long breath. ‘An' I've been earnin' twenty-five an' twenty pound a month!' The last words came away with a roar, as though the wide world was conspiring to beat him down.

‘All this time I'm waiting,' I said. ‘I know nothing since last September. Was it left you?'

They laughed aloud together. ‘It was left,' said McPhee, choking. ‘Ou, ay, it was left. That's vara good. Of course it was left. Janet, d'ye note that? It was left. Now if you'd put
that
in your pamphlet it would have been vara jocose. It
was
left.' He slapped his thigh and roared till the wine quivered in the decanter.

The Scotch are a great people, but they are apt to hang over a joke too long, particularly when no one can see the point but themselves.

‘When I rewrite my pamphlet I'll put it in, McPhee. Only I must know something more first.'

McPhee thought for the length of half a cigar, while Janet caught my eye and led it round the room to one new thing after another – the new vine-pattern carpet, the new chiming rustic clock between the models of the Colombo outrigger-boats, the new inlaid sideboard with a purple cut-glass flower-stand, the fender of gilt and brass, and last, the new black-and-gold piano.

‘In October o' last year the Board sacked me,' began McPhee. ‘In October o' last year the
Breslau
came in for winter overhaul. She'd been runnin' eight months – two hunder an' forty days – an' I was three days makin' up my indents, when she went to dry-dock. All told, mark you, it was this side o' three hunder pound – to be preceese, two hunder an' eighty-six pound four shillings. There's not another man could ha' nursed the
Breslau
for eight months to that tune. Never again – never again! They may send their boats to the bottom, for aught I care.'

‘There's no need,' said Janet softly. ‘We're done wi' Holdock, Steiner, and Chase.'

‘It's irritatin', Janet, it's just irritatin'. I ha' been justified from first to last, as the world knows, but – but I canna forgie 'em. Ay, wisdom is justified o' her children; an' any other man than me wad ha' made the indent eight hunder. Hay was our skipper – ye'll have met him. They shifted him to the
Torgau
, an' bade me wait for the
Breslau
under young Bannister. Ye'll obsairve there'd been a new election on the Board. I heard the shares were sellin' hither an' yon, an' the major part of the Board was new to me. The old Board would ne'er ha' done it. They trusted me. But the new Board was all for reorganization. Young Steiner – Steiner's son – the Jew, was at the bottom of it, an' they did not think it worth their while to send me word. The first
I
knew – an' I was Chief Engineer – was the notice of the line's winter sailin's, and the
Breslau
timed for sixteen days between port an' port! Sixteen days, man! She's a good boat, but eighteen is her summer time, mark you. Sixteen was sheer, flytin', kitin' nonsense, an' so I told young Bannister.

‘“We've got to make it,” he said. “Ye should not ha' sent in a three hunder pound indent.”

‘“Do they look for their boats to be run on air?” I said. “The Board is daft.”

‘“E'en tell 'em so,” he says. “I'm a married man, an' my fourth's on the ways now, she says.”'

‘A boy – wi' red hair,' Janet put in. Her own hair is the splendid red-gold that goes with a creamy complexion.

‘My word, I was an angry man that day! Forbye I was fond o' the old
Breslau
, I look for a little consideration from the Board after twenty years' service. There was Board meetin' on Wednesday; an I sat overnight in the engine-room, takin' figures to support my case. Well, I put it fair and square before them all. “Gentlemen,” I said, “I've run the
Breslau
eight seasons, an' I believe there's no fault to find wi' my wark. But if ye haud to this” – I waggled the advertisement at 'em – “this that
I've
never heard of it till I read it at breakfast, I do assure you on my professional reputation, she can never do it. That is to say, she can for a while, but at a risk no thinkin' man would run.”

‘“What the deil d'ye suppose we pass your indent for?” says old Holdock. “Man, we're spendin' money like watter.”

‘“I'll leave it in the Board's hands,” I said, “if two hunder an' eighty-seven pound is anything beyond right and reason for eight months.” I might ha' saved my breath, for the Board was new since the last election,
an' there they sat, the damned deevidend-huntin' ship-chandlers, deaf as the adders o' Scripture.
⁷

‘“We must keep faith wi' the public,” said young Steiner.

‘“Keep faith wi' the
Breslau
then,” I said. “She's served you well, an' your father before you. She'll need her bottom restiffenin', an' new bed-plates, an' turnin' out the forward boilers, an' re-turnin' all three cylinders, an' refacin' all guides, to begin with. It's a three months' job.”

‘“Because one employé is afraid?” says young Steiner. “Maybe a piano in the Chief Engineer's cabin would be more to the point.”

‘I crushed my cap in my hands, an' thanked God we'd no bairns an' a bit put by.

‘“Understand, gentlemen,” I said. “If the
Breslau
is made a sixteen-day boat, ye'll find another engineer.”

‘“Bannister makes no objection,” said Holdock.

‘“I'm speakin' for myself,” I said. “Bannister has bairns.” An' then I lost my temper. “Ye can run her into Hell an' out again if ye pay pilotage,” I said, “but ye run without me.”

‘“That's insolence,” said young Steiner.

‘“At your pleasure,” I said, turnin' to go.

‘“Ye can consider yourself dismissed. We must preserve discipline among our employés,” said old Holdock, an' he looked round to see that the Board was with him. They knew nothin' – God forgie 'em – an' they nodded me out o' the Line after twenty years – after twenty years.

‘I went out an' sat down by the hall porter to get my wits again. I'm thinkin' I swore at the Board. Then auld McRimmon – o' McNaughton and McRimmon – came oot o' his office, that's on the same floor, an' looked at me, proppin' up one eyelid wi' his forefinger. Ye know they call him the Blind Deevil, forbye he's onythin' but blind, an' no deevil in his dealin's wi' me – McRimmon o' the Black Bird Line.

‘“What's here, Mister McPhee?” said he.

‘I was past prayin' for by then. “A Chief Engineer sacked after twenty years' service because he'll not risk the
Breslau
on the new timin', an' be damned to ye, McRimmon,” I said.

‘The auld man sucked in his lips an' whistled. “Ah,” said he, “the new timin'. I see!” He doddered into the Board-room I'd just left, an' the Dandie-dog that is just his blind man's leader stayed wi' me.
That
was providential. In a minute he was back again. “Ye've cast your bread on the watter, McPhee, an' be damned to you,” he says. “Whaur's my dog? My word, is he on your knee? There's more discernment in a dog than a Jew. What garred ye curse your Board, McPhee? It's expensive.”

‘“They'll pay more for the
Breslau,”
I said. “Get off my knee, ye smotherin' beastie.”

‘“Bearin's hot, eh?” said McRimmon. “It's thirty year since a man daur curse me to my face. Time was I'd ha' cast ye doon the stairway for that.”

“‘Forgie's all!” I said. He was wearin' to eighty, as I knew. “I was wrong, McRimmon; but when a man's shown the door for doin' his plain duty he's not always ceevil.”

‘“So I hear,” says McRimmon. “Ha' ye ony objection to a tramp freighter? It's only fifteen a month, but they say the Blind Deevil feeds a man better than others. She's my
Kite
. Come ben. Ye can thank Dandie, here. I'm no used to thanks. An' noo,” says he, “what possessed ye to throw up your berth wi' Holdock?”

‘“The new timin',” said I. “The
Breslau
will not stand it.”

‘“Hoot, oot,” said he. “Ye might ha' crammed her a little – enough to show ye were drivin' her – an' brought her in twa days behind. What's easier than to say ye slowed for bearin's, eh? All my men do it, and – I believe 'em.”

‘“McRimmon,” says I, “what's her virginity to a lassie?”

‘He puckered his dry face an' twisted in his chair. “The warld an' a',” says he. “My God, the vara warld an' a‘! But what ha' you or me to do wi' virginity, this late along?”

‘“This,” I said. “There's just one thing that each 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,
⁸
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,
⁹
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,
¹⁰
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 waiter, an' he'd whine an' cry an' say they
looked all he could desire. Every owner has his
non plus ultra
,
¹¹
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 Atlantic winter weather. Ye ken what
that
means? McRimmon an' the Black Bird Line, God bless him!

‘Oh, I forgot to say she would lie down an' fill her forward deck green, an' snore away into a twenty-knot gale forty-five to the minute, three an' a half knots an hour, the engines runnin' sweet an' true as a bairn breathin' in its sleep. Bell was skipper; an' forbye there's no love lost between crews an' owners, we were fond o' the auld Blind Deevil an' his dog, an' I'm thinkin' he liked us. He was worth the windy side o' twa million sterlin', an' no friend to his own blood-kin. Money's an awfu' thing – overmuch – for a lonely man.

‘I'd taken her out twice, there an' back again, when word came o' the
Breslau's
breakdown, just as I prophesied. Calder was her engineer – he's not fit to run a tug down the Solent – and he fairly lifted the engines off the bed-plates, an' they fell down in heaps, by what I heard. So she filled from the after-stuffin'-box to the after-bulkhead, an' lay star-gazing, with seventy-nine squealin' passengers in the saloon, till the
Camaralzaman
o' Ramsey and Gold's Carthagena Line gave her a tow to the tune o' five thousand seven hunder an' forty pound, wi' costs in the Admiralty Court. She was helpless, ye'll understand, an' in no case to meet ony weather. Five thousand seven hunder an' forty pounds,
with
costs, an' exclusive o' new engines! They'd ha' done better to ha' kept me – on the old timin'.

‘But, even so, the new Board were all for retrenchment. Young Steiner, the Jew, was at the bottom of it. They sacked men right an' left that would not eat the dirt the Board gave 'em. 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
¹²
ye remember.

‘In January we went to dry-dock, an' in the next dock lay the
Grotkau
, their big freighter that was the
Dolabella
o' Piegan, Piegan, and Walsh's Line in ‘84 – a Clyde-built iron boat, a flat-bottomed, pigeon-breasted, under-engined, bull-nosed bitch of a five thousand ton freighter, that would neither steer, nor steam, nor stop when ye asked her. Whiles she'd attend to her helm, whiles she'd take charge, whiles she'd wait to scratch herself, an' whiles she'd buttock into a dockhead. But Holdock and Steiner had bought her cheap, and painted her all over like the Hoor
¹³
o'
Babylon, an' we called her the
Hoor
for short.' (By the way, McPhee kept to that name throughout the rest of his tale; so you must read accordingly.) ‘I went to see young Bannister – he had to take what the Board gave him, an' he an' Calder were shifted together from the
Breslau
to this abortion – an' talkin' to him I went into the dock under her. Her plates were pitted till the men that were paint, paint, paintin' her laughed at it. But the warst was at the last. She'd a great clumsy iron twelve-foot Thresher propeller – Aitcheson designed the
Kite's –
and just on the tail o' the shaft, behind the boss, was a red weepin' crack ye could ha' put a penknife to. Man, it was an awfu' crack!