Davidge threw back his head and emitted a noise between laughter and profanity. He picked up a letter and flung it down.
“I’ve just got orders changing the specifications again. This is the third time, and the third time’s the charm; for now we’ve got to take out all we’ve put in, make a new set of drawings and a new set of castings and pretty blamed near tear down the whole ship and rebuild it.”
“In the name of Heaven, why?”
“In the name of hades, because we’ve got to get a herd of railroad locomotives to France, and sending them over in pieces won’t do. They want ’em ready to run. So the powers that be have ordered me to provide two hatchways 240 big enough to lower whole locomotives through, and pigeonholes in the hold big enough to carry them. As far as the Mamise is concerned, that means we’ve just about got to rub it out and do it over again. It’s a case of back to the mold-loft for Mamise.”
“And about how much more delay will this mean?”
“Oh, about ninety days or thereabouts. If we’re lucky we’ll launch her by spring.”
This was almost worse than the death of the Clara. That tragedy had been noble; it dealt a noble blow and woke the heart to a noble grief and courage. But deferment made the heart sick, and the brain and almost the stomach.
Davidge liked the disappointment no better than Mamise did, but he was used to it.
“And now aren’t you glad you’re not a ship-builder? How would you feel if you had got your wish to work in the yard and had turned your little velvet hands into a pair of nutmeg-graters by driving about ten thousand rivets into those plates, only to have to cut ’em all out again and drive ’em into an entirely new set of plates, knowing that maybe they’d have to come out another time and go back? How’d you like that?”
Mamise lifted her shoulders and let them fall.