Nabby raised a warning hand. “Sshh!” she begged, in alarm. “My soul and body, Cap’n Foster! he’ll hear you if you holler like that.... It ain’t that kind of a cook. It’s a—a ’Lisha Cook.”
“What!”
He leaped from the chair. Esther rose, too. She caught his sleeve.
“Hush, Uncle Foster!” she whispered. “Nabby doesn’t mean old Mr. Cook himself. I am sure she doesn’t.”
Something in her tone caused her uncle to look down at her. A thought came to him.
“Humph!” he grunted. “Do you know who it is, Esther?”
“No-o. No, I don’t. But I just wondered if—you know you said he might come and—”
He interrupted. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Yes, yes.... Is it young Griffin, Nabby?”
Nabby nodded. “That’s just who ’tis,” she said. “He’s a Cook, ain’t he? And when I see him standin’ there right in front of me, as bold as brass, I vow I—”
Townsend broke in once more. He laughed, shortly. “I see,” he said. “Well, bring him in, Nabby.”