“You know just as well as I do, Zelotes. There's only one thing you can do. That's go out and beg her pardon this minute. There's a dozen places she could get right here in South Harniss without turnin' her hand over. And if she should leave I don't know WHAT I'd do.”
“Leave! She ain't goin' to leave any more'n than the ship's cat's goin' to jump overboard. She's been here so long she wouldn't know how to leave if she wanted to.”
“That don't make any difference. The pitcher that goes to the well—er—er—”
She had evidently forgotten the rest of the proverb. Her husband helped her out.
“Flocks together or gathers no moss, or somethin', eh? All right, Mother, don't fret. There ain't really any occasion to, considerin' we've been through somethin' like this at least once every six months for ten years.”
“Zelotes, won't you PLEASE go and ask her pardon?”
The captain pushed back his chair. “I'll be hanged if it ain't a healthy note,” he grumbled, “when the skipper has to go and apologize to the cook because the cook's made a fool of herself! I'd like to know what kind of rum Labe drinks. I never saw any but his kind that would go to somebody else's head. Two people gettin' tight and only one of 'em drinkin' is somethin'—”
He disappeared into the kitchen, still muttering. Mrs. Snow smiled feebly at her grandson.
“I guess you think we're funny folks, Albert,” she said. “But Rachel is one hired help in a thousand and she has to be treated just so.”
Five minutes later Cap'n 'Lote returned. He shrugged his shoulders and sat down at his place.