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.