The skipper unearthed some stale ropy paint of the loathsome green that they used for the galleys of sailing-ships, and Mr. Wardrop spread it abroad lavishly to give the engines self-respect.
His own was returning day by day, for he wore his loin-cloth continuously; but the crew, having worked under orders, did not feel as he did. The completed work satisfied Mr. Wardrop. He would at the last have made shift to run to Singapore, and gone home without vengeance taken to show his engines to his brethren in the craft; but the others and the captain forbade him. They had not yet recovered their self-respect.
"It would be safer to make what ye might call a trial trip, but beggars mustn't be choosers; an if the engines will go over to the hand-gear, the probability - I'm only saying it's a probability the chance is that they'll hold up when we put steam on her."
"How long will you take to get steam?" said the skipper.
God knows! Four hours - a day - half a week. If I can raise sixty pound I'll not complain."
"Be sure of her first; we can't afford to go out half a mile, and break down."
"My soul and body, man, we're one continuous breakdown, fore an' aft! We might fetch Singapore, though."
"We'll break down at Pygang-Watai, where we can do good," was the answer, in a voice that did not allow argument. "She's my boat, and - I've had eight months to think in."
No man saw the Haliotis depart, though many heard her. She left at two in the morning, having cut her moorings, and it was none of her crew's pleasure that the engines should strike up a thundering half-seas-over chanty that echoed among the hills. Mr. Wardrop wiped away a tear as he listened to the new song.
"She's gibberin' - she's just gibberin'," he whimpered. "Yon's the voice of a maniac.