Jack, Harding and all those who had any pride in the ship's beauty and her seamanlike appearance had done virtually everything in human power to make it impossible for any candid eye, however severe, to find fault with her: they knew that the Admiral could not honestly say that her yards were not exactly squared, nor could he complain that the hens had flung their litter about the deck {a not unusual grievance when there was nothing else to blame} because no poultry whatsoever had survived the dearth. But they had never thought of Stephen. No one had washed, brushed or dusted Dr Maturin, and he came up in more than his usual squalor, unshaved, fresh – if such a word can be used – from his greasy, malodorous task of dissecting the inedible parts of yet another porpoise. None
( Patrick O'Brian )
[ The Yellow Admiral ]
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