Though the middle of November, the soft warmth of the
tropics is in the air. Nor are the sea and sky now leaden. The first is
turned into liquid gold by the phosphorescence, and the full moon
silvers everything else. Neither is Peter pacing the deck with lines of
pain and endurance on his face. He is up in the bow, where the vessel's
forefoot throws up the white foam in silver drops in the moonlight. And
he does not look miserable. Anything but that. He is sitting on an
anchor stock, with his back comfortably braced against the rail. Another
person is not far distant. What that person sits upon and leans against
is immaterial to the narrative.
"Why don't you smoke?" asked that person.
"I'm too happy," said Peter, in a voice evidencing the truth of his
words.
"Will you if I bite off the end?" asked Eve, Jr., placing temptation
most temptingly.
"I like the idea exceedingly," said Peter. "But my right arm is so very
pleasantly placed that it objects to moving."
"Don't move it.
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