“Ah!” said Martin, as though speaking to Deane, “there’s a fine ship!”
“Ye don’t know her stem from her stern,” said the painter, turning round to observe the speaker, then dabbing a ferocious spot of sea under his ship’s bow.
“She’s beautiful,” insisted Martin. “That is—she would be, if she had just a touch of steam.” He paused for a second. “There’s nothing like steam in a calm, or if you need a head in the wind.”
The brush dropped out of the painter’s hand and his face turned the color of brick.
“Steam!” he snorted. “I went round the Horn with just me hat spread, boy!” He picked up his brush, wiped it carefully and jabbed at the canvas again. “I took me own ship round the Cape durin’ a gale! There was less time than you’ll get in your liner—and it gave me a belly at fifty you’ll never see at thirty!”
Martin nodded.
“Canvas had its points, all right,” he agreed.
“Steam!” repeated the old master scornfully, not in the least mollified, and spat upon the ground.
“Well,” persisted Martin, “I wish I could have tried your square-riggers. I never quite trusted steam, myself.” His voice sounded a little regretful.