"Is what?" I demanded. "What do you two see in that old hull that is
so extraordinary?"

Just then the writing guy decided we had monopolized the conversation
long enough. So he seized the opportunity to exercise for our benefit
the rare gift he was endowed with. He glanced patronizingly at the
coal hulk, wrinkled his nose in disapprobation of her appearance, and
delivered himself in an oracular voice.

"What a horrible looking old tub! Not a difficult task to invest her
with her true personality. An old workhorse--eh? A broken down old
plug, built for heavy labor, and now rounding out an uninspiring
existence by performing the most menial of tasks. An apt
description--what?"

I noticed a faint smile crack the straight line of Captain Shreve's
mouth. But it was Briggs who was unable to contain himself. He turned
full upon the poor scribe, and plainly voiced his withering scorn.

"Why, blast my eyes, young feller, if you weren't as blind as a bat
you'd know you were talking rot! 'A workhorse!' you say. 'A broken
down old plug!' Blast me, man, look at the lines of her!"

The passenger flushed, and stared uncomprehendingly at the poor old
hulk. The tug had gone, and she was lying anchored, now, a few hundred
yards off our starboard bow. A sorry sight. The author could see
nothing but her ugliness.

"Why, she is just a dirty old scow--" he commenced.