The bewilderment and astonishment remained with the captain for some time, just as his daughter's apparent light heartedness remained with her. Holway's call was longer than usual, lasting until Serena, escorted by Mr. Hungerford, returned from Mrs. Black's, where they had been discussing the all-important election. Hungerford and his friend greeted each other with a marked lack of warmth; in fact, they scarcely spoke. Serena was too tired to talk, but Gertrude talked enough for all. She chatted and laughed with almost feverish gaiety until the caller, after many false starts and with evident reluctance, finally tore himself away. Then her manner changed, she was silent and thoughtful and, soon afterward, said goodnight and went up to her room.

Captain Dan forebore to trouble his wife with the news of the telegram announcing John Doane's departure for the West, and the reception of that news by Gertrude. After hearing Serena's complaints of her “nerves” and weariness, he decided that there was trouble sufficient for that night. But the next morning he spoke of it. Serena was surprised, of course, and worried likewise.

“You're right, Daniel,” she said, “I am afraid you're right. She and John must have had some disagreement. I suppose it is only a lover's quarrel—young engaged people are always having foolish quarrels—and they always get over them and make up again. But, oh, dear! why did they quarrel just now? Haven't I got enough on my mind without fretting about them? Well, I'll talk to Gertie this very forenoon.”

She did, but the talk was unsatisfactory. When Daniel, waiting anxiously to learn what had taken place, questioned her she shook her head.

“I can't make Gertie out,” she declared pettishly. “She acts so queer. Doesn't want to talk about John at all. Says it is all right, and why should I worry if she doesn't? And she is so different, somehow. She was willing enough to discuss my chances for the vice-presidency. She asked twenty questions about that and declares she is going to help me. And yesterday, when I wanted her to help, she didn't take any interest. I never saw such a change. And she is so—so fidgety and—and nervous and high-spirited and silly. She laughed at nothing and kept jumping up and walking about and sitting down again. I declare! it made ME jumpy just to look at her.”

Gertrude's conduct was certainly surprising. It caused Captain Dan to feel “jumpy” more than once. Her determination to help her mother in the campaign she put into immediate practice. She called Cousin Percy into council, borrowed Serena's list of Chapter members, and the pair spent hours checking that list together. Then Gertrude announced that she was going to make some calls. She made them and returned, exultant.

“I think I have made two converts this afternoon,” she said. “I am almost sure they will vote for you, Mother. You and I must go to Mrs. Black's to-night and talk it over with her. We MUST; it is very important.”

Serena, who had hoped for an early bedtime, expressed weariness, and protested, but her protests were overruled. They went to the Blacks' and Captain Dan and Mr. Hungerford went, also. Annette was delighted to see them. Mr. Black succeeded in repressing his joy.

“For the Lord's sake, Dan!” he exclaimed, when, he and the captain were alone, “isn't there EVER going to be any let-up to this tom-foolery? Are these women of ours going stark crazy?”

Daniel gloomily replied that he didn't know.

“You're worse off than I am,” continued B. Phelps. “There's two lunatics in your family and only one in mine. Your daughter's just as bad as her mother, every bit—worse, if anything. But, it seems to agree with HER. I never saw her so lively or so pretty either. Humph! your pet cousin there is badly gone, or I'm no judge. Well, you remember what I told you about him.”

Daniel nodded. He was too depressed for words.

“All right, it's your funeral, not mine. But, say! there's one ray of hope. The whole crowd may be licked to death in this election. If they are, my wife says she'll resign from the Chapter and never speak to one of the bunch again. It sounds too good to be true, but it may be. It's enough to make a fellow hop in and do some political work himself—for the other side. What?”

The political work continued, mornings and afternoons, evenings and far into the nights. Serena was in it, Gertrude was in it, and Cousin Percy and Mr. Holway were in it because she was. Monty's calls were of frequent occurrence. Mr. Hungerford and his erstwhile chum did not speak to each other at all now. But at receptions and teas and dances and musicals and committee meetings one or the other was on hand at Miss Dott's elbow. And Gertrude was very gracious to them both; not more to one than the other, but exceptionally kind and agreeable to each.

The social affairs were of almost as frequent occurrence as the political meetings. Gertrude accepted all invitations and urged her mother to accept.

“You must, Mother,” she declared. “Now is the time when you can't afford to offend or neglect anyone. You may need their votes and influence.”

“But, Gertie,” pleaded poor, tired Serena, “I can't go everywhere.”

“You must. If this vice-presidency is worth all the world to you, as you say it is, you must sacrifice everything else to get it.”

“But, I can't! I'm almost worn out. I—I—oh, sometimes I feel almost willing to give it all up and go back to—to—almost anywhere, even Trumet, if I could rest there.”

“You don't mean that, Mother.”

“No; no, of course I don't.”

“Because if you do, why—well, that is different. If you WANT to go back to dead and alive old Trumet—”

“I don't. I—I wouldn't for anything. I shouldn't think you, of all people, would hint at such a thing. You! When I have climbed so high already; when our social position has become what it is. You! talking of going back to Trumet.”

“I'm not. You mentioned it; I didn't. I'm having a beautiful time. I just love our social position. The Blacks and the Kellys and—er—that Miss Dusante! Oh, I adore them. I wouldn't leave such cultured people for anything. And you enjoy it so, Mother. You look so happy.”

Was there a trace of sarcasm in this outburst? Serena was, for the moment, suspicious. She tried her hardest to look very happy indeed.

“I am happy, of course,” she declared.

“I know it. And we want to keep on being happy, don't we. So we must not decline anyone's invitation. We must go, go, go, all the time.”

“But some of the invitations are from people I scarcely know at all. And some I don't like.”

“That makes no difference. They may be of value to you in your campaign, or socially, or somehow. Don't you see, Mother? In politics or society one wishes to advance, to climb higher all the time. And to do that one must use one's acquaintances as rounds in the ladder. Use them; get something from them; pretend to love them, no matter whether you really hate them or not. They may hate you, but they want to use you. That's part of the game, Mother.”

This was worldly advice to be given by a young lady scarcely out of college. And it sounded so unlike Gertrude. But, then, Gertrude had changed, was changing more and more daily.

“We don't entertain enough,” went on the adviser. “We should be giving some affair or other at least once a week. Invite everybody you know—everyone but the Lake crowd, of course. I'll make out a list of eligibles to-day and we'll give an 'At Home' next week.”

“But, Gertie—the expense. It costs so dreadfully. We're not rich; that is, not very rich.”

“No matter. Everyone thinks we are. If they didn't, most of them would cut us dead to-morrow. We must pretend to be very rich. I'll make out the list. Mr. Holway will help me. He is coming to call this evening.”

Serena looked more troubled than ever.

“Gertie,” she said earnestly, “I think I ought—yes, I am going to warn you against that Mr. Holway. I don't like your having him call or being seen in his company.”

“You don't! I am surprised. I'm sure he is very polite and agreeable. He belongs to the best club and he dresses well, and as to society—why, he is in the very heart of it; our kind of society, I mean.”

“I know, I know. But—well, Cousin Percy doesn't speak well of him. He says he is a very fast young man.”

Gertrude bit her lip. “Did Percy say that!” she exclaimed. “How odd! Why, Monty—I mean Mr. Holway—said almost the same thing about him. And I KNOW you like Cousin Percy, Mother.”

Mrs. Dott scarcely knew how to answer. As a matter of fact she did not like their aristocratic relative quite as well as she had at first. There were certain things about him, little mannerisms and condescensions, which jarred upon her. He was so very, very much at home in the family now; in fact, he seemed to take his permanent membership in that family for granted. He had ceased to refer to himself as being on a vacation, and, as for his “literary work,” he appeared to have forgotten that altogether.

But these were not the real reasons for Serena's growing dislike and uneasiness. She hinted at the real reason in her next remark.

“I don't think,” she said, “I don't think, Gertie, that you and he should be so much together. You are engaged to be married, you know, and John—”

Gertrude interrupted. She ignored the mention of Mr. Doane's name.

“Oh, Cousin Percy is all right,” she said lightly. “He's good company. Of course he may be something of a sport, but that is to be expected. The trouble with you and me, Mother, is that we are too old-fashioned; we are not sporty enough.”

“GERTIE!” Serena's horror was beyond words.

Gertrude laughed. “But that can be mended,” she went on. “Mother, you should learn to drink cocktails and tango. I think I shall. Everybody's doing it, doing it, doing it!”

Humming this spirited ditty, which the street pianos had rendered popular, and smiling over her shoulder at her mother, she “one-stepped” from the room. Serena put both hands to her head. Her “nerves” were more troublesome than ever the remainder of that day.

There were enough troubles to rack even a healthy set of nerves. The domestic situation was decidedly complicated. No successor to the departed Hapgood had, as yet, been selected. Mr. Hungerford was partially responsible for this. At first, when told of the butler's misbehavior and its consequences, he had expressed sorrow, but had advised forgiveness and the reinstallation of the discharged one. The crime was, after all, not so very serious. Most butlers exacted commissions from tradespeople, so he had been told. Of course it was all wrong, a pernicious system and all that, but they did do it. And many employers winked at the system. Hapgood was an exceptional fellow, really quite exceptional. Aunt Lavinia had treated him as one of the family, almost. Captain Dan, to whom these statements were made, was stubbornly indignant. He wouldn't wink at a thief, and he wouldn't fire him and then hire him over again, either. If “that everlastin' sneak showed his white-washed face on the premises again, he'd have that face damaged.” All the captain hoped for was a chance to inflict the damage.

So Cousin Percy, finding Daniel obdurate, tried his influence upon Serena, whom he regarded, and justly, as the real head of the house. But Serena, too, refused to consider Mr. Hapgood's re-employment. She had talked with Azuba, and Azuba had declared that she should leave in “just about two-thirds of a jiffy” if the butler came back. “When he comes into my kitchen,” she said, “I get out. I should hate to quit the folks I'd worked for the biggest part of my life, but there's some things I won't stand. He's one of 'em. Don't talk to me about HIM!”

Mr. Hapgood was not re-engaged nor forgiven, and Hungerford kindly volunteered to find a competent successor. He would make some inquiries among his friends, the right sort of people, he said, and his manner indicated that the said people were accustomed to employing butlers in droves.

Azuba, therefore, was left with all the domestic cares upon her hands. These hands were quite competent, had they been disengaged, but just now they were full. Azuba was “advancing,” just as she had proclaimed to Captain Dan that she intended to do. She read “The Voice” and kindred literature a great deal, and quoted from her readings at every opportunity. Denied admittance to the Chapter, in spite of Gertrude's efforts in her behalf—Gertrude had warmly advocated the formation of a Servants' Branch—she had made search on her own hook and suddenly announced that she had found what she was looking for. This, so she affirmed, was an organization called “The Free Laborers' Band,” and it met in a hall somewhere or other, though no one but its members seemed to know just where that hall was. Serena made inquiries, but neither servants nor mistresses had ever heard of the “Band.” Gertrude, when she heard of it, at first seemed to be much amused, and laughed heartily. Then she became very grave and declared it a splendid thing and that she was delighted because Azuba had found her opportunity. She was entitled to that opportunity, as was every free woman, and certainly neither Gertrude or her mother, being “free women” themselves, must offer objection or permit mere household drudgery to interfere.

So Azuba “advanced” and preached and went out at night and occasionally during the day. Gertrude and Serena went out all the time, when they were not entertaining themselves. Life became a never-ending round of politics and society functions, followed by, on Mrs. Dott's part, sleepless nights and “nerves” and fretful worriment concerning Gertrude. Gertrude did not appear to worry. She grew gayer and more gay, more careless in her manner and more slangy in her speech. Mr. Holway continued to call and Cousin Percy to dance solicitous attendance. John Doane's name was never mentioned in his fiancee's presence. She would not speak, or permit others to speak, of him.

And then Mr. Holway ceased to call. His final call was a lengthy one, and he and Gertrude were alone during the latter part of it. The following day Daniel met him on the street and was barely recognized. The captain was not greatly troubled at the slight—he did not care greatly for the lively Monty—but he was surprised. When he mentioned the meeting to his daughter the young lady smiled, but offered no explanation. Her father did not press the point. As Holway came no more and it became apparent that he was not coming, the captain was satisfied.

Gertrude's strange behavior alarmed and troubled him, but his wife's ill health and her worn, weary expression alarmed him more. He was actually frightened concerning her.

“Oh, Serena,” he begged, “what makes you do it? It isn't worth it. You're killin' yourself. Let's give it up and go somewhere and rest. The Queen of Sheba's job ain't worth it, let alone just bein' vice-president of Scarford Chapter.”

But Serena shook her head. “I can't give it up, Daniel,” she declared hysterically. “I—I think I would if I could. I really do. Sometimes I feel as if I would give up everything just to be at peace and happy and contented again.”

“You bet!” with enthusiasm. “So would I. And we were contented at Trumet, wasn't we? That is, I was; and you was enough sight better contented than you are now.”

“I know, I know. But I can't give it up, Daniel. Don't you see? I can't! I mustn't think of myself at all. See how loyally Annette and the rest have stood by me. Their splendid loyalty is the one thing that makes it worth while. I must keep up and fight on for their sakes. I must be as true to them as they are to me. Would they desert me for anything? No! And I shan't desert them. I am going to be elected. I know it. After that, after the election is over, I may—I might, perhaps—”

“You might go somewhere with me and have a good, comfortable time. All right, we will. And Gertie can go, too.”

The mention of her daughter's name seemed to be more disturbing than all the rest. Serena burst into tears.

“She wouldn't go, Daniel!” she cried. “You know she wouldn't. She—she is going crazy, I do believe. She is wild about society and bridge—she told me only yesterday she wasn't sure that playing for money was wrong. All my friends and her friends did it and why shouldn't we? And she dances all these dreadful new dances and uses slang and—and—oh, she is—I don't know WHAT she will be if this keeps on. Why does she do it? WHO is responsible?”

Daniel did not answer. He had a feeling that he could, without moving from his chair, lay a hand upon the person chiefly responsible, but he kept that feeling to himself.

“She'd go, if we wanted her to,” he affirmed stoutly.

“No, she wouldn't.”

“By time! she would. You and I would make her. I couldn't do it alone, I know that, but if you'll say the word and stand by me she'll go, if I have to—to give her ether and take her while she's asleep. Say the word, that's all I want you to do.”

Serena did not say the word, not then. She continued to moan and wring her hands.

“She's all wrong, Daniel!” she cried. “She does wrong things. She is with—with Cousin Percy too much. He and she are getting to be altogether too friendly. She has dropped John for good, I'm afraid. Oh, suppose she should—”

The captain's anger burst forth at this expression of his own secret dread.

“Suppose she should marry that Hungerford, you mean!” he cried. “She won't! She won't! She's too sensible, anyway; but, if she should, I—I'd rather see her dead. Yes, sir, dead!”

“So had I. But Cousin Percy—”

“D—n Cousin Percy!”

For once his profanity met with no rebuke. Serena did not appear to notice it.

“He is not the right sort of man for her,” she declared. “He is polite and aristocratic and he has helped us in society; but he is dissipated and fast, I'm sure of it. He has been out a great deal lately and comes home late, and I have heard him come up the stairs as if—as if—Oh, WHY did you insist on his staying here, living here with us?”

“Why did I—Humph! Well, that's all right. That's all right, Serena. You back me up in that, too, and he'll go out a sight quicker than he came in. I'll see that he does. He'll fly. I can handle MEN even yet—though I don't seem to be good for much else.”

But Mrs. Dott wouldn't hear of it. They couldn't PUT him out, she declared; think of the scandal! No, no, no! The interview ended by the captain's dismissal and Serena's getting ready for that evening's committee meeting.

It developed that Azuba's “Band” met on that same evening. Gertrude and her mother had gone—they were to dine with the committee at Annette's—and when Daniel, at seven o'clock, shouted for his dinner, no dinner was ready.

“I can't stop to fuss with dinner,” said Azuba firmly. “I've got to get ready for my Band meetin'. All the afternoon I've been fussin' with my speech—I'm goin' to speak to-night—and now it's time for me to change my clothes. I'm sorry, Cap'n Dott; I never neglected you afore; but this time I've got to. There's plenty to eat in the ice-chest and you must wait on yourself. No use to talk! I ain't got time to listen.”

Captain Dan was furious. This was a trifle too much.

“You get that dinner!” he roared. “Get it, or you'll never get another meal in this house!”

“Won't I? Why not? Mrs. Dott said I might go to this meetin'. She'll understand.”

“By time, Zuba Ginn, I'll discharge you! I will! I don't care if you have been with us since Methusalem's time. You old foolhead! At your age—”

“I'm no older than your wife, Dan'l Dott. And you can't discharge me, neither. I wouldn't go. I'm no Hapgood. I've got rights and I'll stand up for 'em. You ain't the boss, I guess. If Serena discharges me, all right; but she won't. There! don't talk to ME. I've got other fish to fry.”

She marched up the back stairs. Daniel sprang after her, but she closed the door in his face. For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned back and, re-entering the kitchen, began to pace up and down, his hands in his pockets.

He strode from the sink to the back door, wheeled and strode back again. There was an odd expression on his face. He frowned, muttered to himself, whistled, smiled, and once broke into a short laugh. But, as he continued the pacing, gradually the frown and smile disappeared and his expression became one of grim determination. His lips closed, his eyes puckered, and his stride lengthened. His heels struck the oilcloth with sharp, quick thumps. If one of his former shipmates, a foremast hand on the schooner Bluebird, could have seen him then, that foremast hand would have interpreted his behavior as a forerunner of trouble. He would have known that the “old man” was making up his mind to a definite course of action and that, having made it up, he would keep to that course so long as he could see or breathe.

And that interpretation would have been correct. Captain Dan was desperate. He had made up his mind to fight, to “put his foot down” at last. Serena's ill health, Gertrude's conduct, the aggravating insolence of Cousin Percy, all these had helped to spur him to this pitch. And now came Azuba's open rebellion and her declaration that his command amounted to nothing, that he was not the “boss.” It was true, that was the humiliating fact which stung. He was not the boss; he was not even cabin boy, and he knew it. But, to be openly told so, and by his cook, was a little too much. The worm will turn—at least we are told that it will—and Daniel Dott was turning.

He jerked his hands from his pockets and opened his mouth.

“Azuba!” he roared. “You, Zuba, come here!”

Azuba did not answer. She was in her room at the top of the house and, of course, did not hear the shout. Before the captain could repeat it someone knocked at the back door.

The knock was no hesitating, irresolute tap. It was an emphatic, solid thump. Daniel heard it, but, in his present state of mind, was in no mood to heed.

“Zuba!” he repeated. “Zuba Ginn, are you comin' here or shall I come after you? ZUBA!”

The back door was merely latched, not locked. Now it was thrown open, a heavy step sounded in the entry and a voice, a man's voice, said, in a shout almost as loud as the captain's, “Yes, Zuba; that's what I was cal'latin' to say, myself. Who—why, hello, Cap'n Dan! How are you?”

Daniel turned. A man had entered the kitchen, a big man, wearing a cloth cap, and carrying in one hand a lumpy oilcloth valise. He tossed the valise to the floor, grinned, and extended a hand.

“Well, Cap'n Dan,” he observed, “you look as natural as life. I must have changed, I cal'late. Don't you know me?”

The captain's eyes were opening wider and wider. “Labe!” he exclaimed; “Laban Ginn! Where in the world did you come from?”

The person who had so unceremoniously entered the kitchen was Azuba's husband, mate of the tramp steamer.