“What's his name?”
“What difference does that make? I don't know's his name makes any odds about gettin' his breakfast for him.”
Georgianna was hurt. Her easy-going employer had never used this tone before when addressing her.
“Oh!” she sniffed. “Is THAT the way you feel? All right! I can mind my own business, thank you. I only asked because it's convenient sometimes to know whether to call a person Bill Smith or Sol Jones. But I don't care if it's Nebuchadnezzar. I know when to keep my tongue still, I guess.”
She flounced over to the range. Captain Cy looked ashamed of himself.
“I'm kind of out of sorts to-day,” he said. “Got some headache. Why, his name is—is—yes, 'tis Smith, come to think of it—John Smith. Funny you should guess right, wan't it?”
“Humph!” was the ungracious answer. “Names don't interest me, I tell you.”
The captain was in the dining room when Bos'n appeared.
“Good morning, Uncle Cyrus,” she said. “You've been waiting, haven't you? Am I late? I didn't mean to be.”
“No, no! you ain't late. Early, if anything. Breakfast ain't quite ready yet. Come here and set in my lap. I want to talk to you.”