is not the right sort of man for her," she declared. "He is polite and aristocratic and he has helped us in society; but he is dissipated and fast, I'm sure of it. He has been out a great deal lately and comes home late, and I have heard him come up the stairs as if--as if--Oh, WHY did you insist on his staying here, living here with us?"
"Why did _I_--Humph! Well, that's all right. That's all right, Serena. You back me up in that, too, and he'll go out a sight quicker than he came in. I'll see that he does. He'll fly. I can handle MEN even yet--though I don't seem to be good for much else."
But Mrs. Dott wouldn't hear of it. They couldn't PUT him out, she declared; think of the scandal! No, no, no! The interview ended by the captain's dismissal and Serena's getting ready for that evening's committee meeting.
It developed that Azuba's "Band" met on that same evening. Gertrude and her mother had gone--they were to dine with the committee at Annette's--and when Daniel, at seven o'clock, shouted for his dinner, no dinner was ready.
"I can't stop to fuss with dinner," said Azuba firmly. "I've got to get ready for my Band meetin'. All the afternoon I've been fussin' with my speech--I'm goin' to speak to-night--and now it's time for me to change my clothes. I'm sorry, Cap'n Dott; I never neglected you afore; but this time I've got to. There's plenty to eat in the ice-chest and you must wait on yourself. No use to talk! I ain't got time to listen."
Captain Dan was furious. This was a trifle too much.
"You get that dinner!" he roared. "Get it, or you'll never get another meal in this house!"
"Won't I? Why not? Mrs. Dott said I might go to this meetin'. She'll understand."
"By time, Zuba Ginn, I'll discharge you! I will! I don't care if you have been with us since Methusalem's time. You old foolhead! At your age--"
"I'm no older than your wife, Dan'l Dott. And you can't discharge me, neither. I wouldn't go. I'm no Hapgood. I've got rights and I'll stand up for 'em. You ain't the boss, I guess. If Serena discharges me, all right; but she won't. There! don't talk to ME. I've got other fish to fry."
She marched up the back stairs. Daniel sprang after her, but she closed the door in his face. For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned back and, re-entering the kitchen, began to pace up and down, his hands in his pockets.
He strode from the sink to the back door, wheeled and strode back again. There was an odd expression on his face. He frowned, muttered to himself, whistled, smiled, and once broke into a short laugh. But, as he continued the pacing, gradually the frown and smile disappeared and his expression became one of grim determination. His lips closed, his eyes puckered, and his stride lengthened. His heels struck the oilcloth with sharp, quick thumps. If one of his former shipmates, a foremast hand on the schooner Bluebird, could have seen him then, that foremast hand would have interpreted his behavior as a forerunner of trouble. He would have known that the "old man" was making up his mind to a definite course of action and that, having made it up, he would keep to that course so long as he could see or breathe.
And that interpretation would have been correct. Captain Dan was desperate. He had made up his mind to fight, to "put his foot down" at last. Serena's ill health, Gertrude's conduct, the aggravating insolence of Cousin Percy, all these had helped to spur him to this pitch. And now came Azuba's open rebellion and her declaration that his command amounted to nothing, that he was not the "boss." It was true, that was the humiliating fact which stung. He was not the boss; he was not even cabin boy, and he knew it. But, to be openly told so, and by his cook, was a little too much. The worm will turn--at least we are told that it will--and Daniel Dott was turning.
He jerked his hands from his pockets and opened his mouth.
"Azuba!" he roared. "You, Zuba, come here!"
Azuba did not answer. She was in her room at the top of the house and, of course, did not hear the shout. Before the captain could repeat it someone knocked at the back door.
The knock was no hesitating, irresolute tap. It was an emphatic, solid thump. Daniel heard it, but, in his present state of mind, was in no mood to heed.
"Zuba!" he repeated. "Zuba Ginn, are you comin' here or shall I come after you? ZUBA!"
The back door was merely latched, not locked. Now it was thrown open, a heavy step sounded in the entry and a voice, a man's voice, said, in a shout almost as loud as the captain's, "Yes, Zuba; that's what I was cal'latin' to say, myself. Who--why, hello, Cap'n Dan! How are you?"
Daniel turned. A man had entered the kitchen, a big man, wearing a cloth cap, and carrying in one hand a lumpy oilcloth valise. He tossed the valise to the floor, grinned, and extended a hand.
"Well, Cap'n Dan," he observed, "you look as natural as life. _I_ must have changed, I cal'late. Don't you know me?"
The captain's eyes were opening wider and wider. "Labe!" he exclaimed; "Laban Ginn! Where in the world did you come from?"
The person who had so unceremoniously entered the kitchen was Azuba's husband, mate of the tramp steamer.
CHAPTER XIII
"For the land sakes! Laban Ginn!" repeated Daniel.
Mr. Ginn grinned cheerfully. He was six feet tall, or thereabouts, and more than half as wide. His hair and beard were grayish red and his face reddish brown. He was dressed in the regulation "shore togs" of a deep sea sailor, blue double-breasted jacket, blue trousers and waistcoat, white "biled" shirt, low collar--celluloid, by the look--and a "made" bow tie which hung from the button by a worn loop of elastic. His hands were as red as his face and of a size proportionate to the rest of him. He seized the captain's hand in one of his, crushed it to a pulp, and returned the remains to the chief mourner.
"Well, say," he cried, his grin widening, "that feels natural, don't it? Last time you and me shook hands was over three years ago. How are you? Blessed if it ain't good to see you again."
Captain Dan was slowly regaining his equilibrium.
"Same to you, Labe," he returned heartily. "But--but, by Godfreys, you're the last person I expected to see just now."
"Yep, I shouldn't wonder."
"Sit down, sit down. Humph! Does Azuba know you're comin'?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, sit down and I'll call her. She's here with us, of course."
"Sartin she is. Where else would she be? I knew she was here; heard you hailin' her just as I made port at the back door. Set down?" He threw himself into a chair, which groaned under the pressure. "Sure, I'll set down! Feels kind of good to drop anchor when you've been cruisin's long as I have. No, Zuby don't know I'm comin'. Last time I wrote her was from Mauritius. I've been to clink and gone since. She WILL be surprised, won't she? Ho! ho! Did I leave the hatch open? Here, let me shut it."
But Daniel himself shut the "hatch," that is to say, the back door. He was on his way to the stairs, but Mr. Ginn detained him.
"Hold on a shake, Cap'n," he said. "I ain't hardly seen you yet. Let's have a look at you." Crossing his legs--his feet were like miniature trunks--he added, "How are you, anyway?"
Daniel replied that he was fair to middling.
"Sit still and make yourself comfortable, Labe," he went on. "I'll tell Zuba you're here."
"What's your hurry? Give me a chance to catch my breath. I lugged that dunnage bag," indicating the valise, "from the depot up here, and I feel as if I'd strained every plank in my hull. Ought to go into dry dock and refit, I had. I landed in Philadelphy a week ago," he continued. "Quit the old steamer for good, I have. Me and the skipper had some words and I told him where he could go. Ho! ho! I don't know whether he went or not; anyhow, I started for Trumet. Got there and found you'd come into money and had moved to Scarford and was livin'