Daniel looked dubious. “I guess not, Labe,” he said. “Zuba—well, the fact is, Zuba doesn't like people to smoke in her kitchen.”
Laban's face expressed astonishment. “She don't!” he cried. “She don't? How long since?”
“Oh, almost ever since she came here. It is one of her new ways.”
“'Tis, hey? Well, I like the old ones better, myself. Never you mind her ways; trot out your pipe and light up. I—”
He was interrupted by his companion, who made a flying jump toward the stove. The teakettle was boiling over.
“Let it bile,” commented Mr. Ginn. “'Tain't your funeral, is it? You ain't supposed to boss the galley. That's the cook's business, not the skipper's.”
But Daniel carefully removed the kettle to a place of safety.
“It's my business to-night,” he said. “I'm gettin' my own supper.”
Mr. Ginn straightened in his chair. “You be?” he exclaimed. “You BE? What for? Ain't there no women folks in the house? Ain't Zuby—why, you said—”
“I know I said, but what I say don't seem to amount to much. You see, Labe, your wife has got some of what MY wife calls advanced ideas. She belongs to some kind of a lodge herself, and this is their meetin' night. Just before you came Zuba made proclamations that I could cook my own supper. She said she couldn't stop to do it; she'd be late to the meetin' if she did.”