Peter Ruff and the Double Four HTML version

II.9. The Ghosts Of Havana Harbor
"We may now," Sogrange remarked, buttoning up his ulster, and stretching
himself out to the full extent of his steamer chair, "consider ourselves at sea. I
trust, my friend, that you are feeling quite comfortable."
Peter, lying at his ease upon a neighboring chair, with a pillow behind his head, a
huge fur coat around his body, and a rug over his feet, had all the appearance of
being very comfortable indeed. His reply, however, was a little short - almost
"I am comfortable enough for the present, thank you. Heaven knows how long it
will last!"
Sogrange waved his arms towards the great uneasy plain of blue sea, the
showers of foam leaping into the sunlight, away beyond the disappearing coast
of France.
"Last!" he repeated. "For eight days, I hope. Consider, my dear Baron! What
could be more refreshing, more stimulating to our jaded nerves than this? Think
of the December fogs you have left behind, the cold, driving rain, the puddles in
the street, the gray skies - London, in short, at her ugliest and worst."
"That is all very well," Peter protested, "but I have left several other things
behind, too."
"As, for instance?" Sogrange inquired, genially.
"My wife," Peter informed him. "Violet objects very much to these abrupt
separations. This week, too, I was shooting at Saxthorpe, and I had also several
other engagements of a pleasant nature. Besides, I have reached that age when
I find it disconcerting to be called out of bed in the middle of the night to answer a
long distance telephone call, and told to embark on a White Star liner leaving