er, was a man whose word was law. On shore, he was law
abiding, and his words were few.

The side door of the store--that leading to the yard separating it from
the Dott homestead--opened, and Azuba Ginn appeared. Azuba had been
the Dott maid of all work for eighteen years, ever since Gertrude was a
baby. She was married, but her husband, Laban Ginn, was mate on a steam
freighter running between New York and almost anywhere, and his shore
leaves were short and infrequent. Theirs was a curious sort of married
life. "We is kind of independent, Labe and me," said Azuba. "He often
says to me--that is, as often as we're together, which ain't often--he
says to me, he says, 'Live where you want to, Zuby,' he says, 'and if
you want to move, move! When I get ashore I can hunt you up.' We don't
write many letters because time each get t'other's, the news is so
plaguey old 'tain't news at all. You Dotts seem more like home folks to
me than anybody else, so I stick to you. I presume likely I shall till I
die."

Azuba entered the store in the way in which she did most things, with
a flurry and a slam. Her sleeves were rolled up, she wore an apron, and
one hand dripped suds, demonstrating that it had just been taken from
the dishpan. In the other, wiped more or less dry on the apron, she held
a crumpled envelope.

"Well!" she exclaimed, excitedly. "If some human bein's don't beat
the Dutch then _I_ don't know, that's all. If the way some folks go
slip-slop, hit or miss, through this world ain't a caution then--Tut!
tut! tut! don't talk to ME!"

Captain Dan looked up from the ledger.

"What?" he asked absently.

"I say, don't talk to ME!"

"We--ll," with deliberation, "I guess I shan't, unless you stop talkin'
yourself, and give me a chance. What's the matter now, Zuba?"

"Matter! Don't talk to ME! Carelessness is the matter! Slip-sloppiness
is the matter! Here's a man that calls himself a man and goes mopin'
around pretendin' to BE a man, and what does he do?"

"I don't know. I'd tell you better, maybe, if I knew who he was."

"Who he was! I'll tell you who he was--is, I mean. He's Balaam
Hambleton, that's who he is."

"Humph! Bale Hamilton, hey? Then it's easy enough to say what he
does--nothin', most of the time. Is that letter for me?"

"Course it's for you! And it's a week old, what's more. One week ago
that letter come in the mail and the postmaster let that--that Hambleton
thing take it, 'cause he said he was goi