A Sub. of the R.N.R.: A Story of the Great War

Well, Mr. McBride?
It's verra far from weel, sir, replied Jock McBride, chief engineer of the SS. Saraband. Captain Ramshaw folded his arms and waited. He knew that it was practically a matter of impossibility to urge the rugged Scottish engineer beyond his usual gait. McBride could and did work at high pressure, but when it came to making a report he was as slow and stolid as the proverbial obstinate mule.
The SS. Saraband, 5260 tons, intermediate boat of the Red Band Line, had developed engine troubles shortly after leaving Cape Town. In spite of the assiduous care and attention of the staff the fault developed. Two hundred miles from Las Palmas the breakdown reached a climax. Wallowing like a porpoise the steamer lay helpless in the trough of the Atlantic rollers.
Ye ken ye tauld me to do three things, sir, resumed McBride. Firstly, to discover the fault, secondly, to remedy it, an' lastly, to prevent it from occurring again? We'll take case the furrst: here 'tis.
The chief engineer extended a black greasy hand. In the outstretched palm was an oily mass of metal chippings.
This is a sample from the high-pressure slide valves. They're badly scored. It's nae fair play, for as sure as ma name's Jock McBride, this muck has been put in the gear deliberately. I'll hae ye to ken that both port and starboard engines are damaged.
While we were in Table Bay?
Of course, sir, when we took down the high-pressure cylinders.
The work was performed by our own staff?