I don't say the type's not common in these waters; it's as common as dirt; the traders carry them for surf-boats.

But the Flying Scud?
a deep-water tramp, who was lime-juicing around between big ports, Calcutta and Rangoon and 'Frisco and the Canton River?
No, I don't see it." We were leaning over the gunwale of the boat as we spoke.

The captain stood nearest the bow, and he was idly playing with the trailing painter, when a thought arrested him.

He hauled the line in hand over hand, and stared, and remained staring, at the end.
"Anything wrong with it ?" I asked.
"Do you know, Mr.Dodd," said he, in a queer voice, "this painter's been cut?
A sailor always seizes a rope's end, but this is sliced short off with the cold steel.

This won't do at all for the men," he added.