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!”