“‘The auld man’s gone gyte,’ says he. ‘He’s withdrawn the Lammergeyer.’
“‘Maybe he has reasons,’ says I.
“‘Reasons! He’s daft!’
“‘He’ll no be daft till he begins to paint,’ I said.
“‘That’s just what he’s done—and South American freights higher than we’ll live to see them again. He’s laid her up to paint her—to paint her—to paint her!’ says the little clerk, dancin’ like a hen on a hot plate. ‘Five thousand ton o’ potential freight rottin’ in drydock, man; an’ he dolin’ the paint out in quarter-pound tins, for it cuts him to the heart, mad though he is. An’ the Grotkau—the Grotkau of all conceivable bottoms—soaking up every pound that should be ours at Liverpool!’
“I was staggered wi’ this folly—considerin’ the dinner at Radley’s in connection wi’ the same.
“‘Ye may well stare, McPhee,’ says the head-clerk. ‘There’s engines, an’ rollin’ stock, an’ iron bridges—d’ye know what freights are noo? an’ pianos, an’ millinery, an’ fancy Brazil cargo o’ every species pourin’ into the Grotkau—the Grotkau o’ the Jerusalem firm—and the Lammergeyer’s bein’ painted!’
“Losh, I thought he’d drop dead wi’ the fits.
“I could say no more than ‘Obey orders, if ye break owners,’ but on the Kite we believed McRimmon was mad; an’ McIntyre of the Lammergeyer was for lockin’ him up by some patent legal process he’d found in a book o’ maritime law. An’ a’ that week South American freights rose an’ rose. It was sinfu’!
“Syne Bell got orders to tak’ the Kite round to Liverpool in water-ballast, and McRimmon came to bid’s good-bye, yammerin’ an’ whinin’ o’er the acres o’ paint he’d lavished on the Lammergeyer.