An hour later I found Peter in bed in his room on East Broadway. He was consuming a raw-beef sandwich but he laid it down to grasp my hand.
I'm sorry, he began, but I don't know how I ever happened to hit on the idea of Bermuda. When I awoke this morning, the thought appalled me; I couldn't get out of bed.
The counterpane was strewn with pamphlets relating to foreign travel. The telephone rang.
Excuse me, he said, as he clutched the receiver. Then, by way of explanation, It's the agent of the Cunard Line. I want to ask about the southern route.
He did. He asked about sailings for Italy, Africa, India, and even Liverpool and then he told the agent that he could not decide what to do but he would let him know later.
Carl, he exclaimed suddenly, let's go to Alaska!
I shook my head.
It may be that we shall meet there by chance some day, but I don't believe you can make up your mind to go there this week.
I'm afraid not, he assented ruefully. I suppose it's hard for you to understand.
I understand well enough, I replied, but under the circumstances you will have to travel alone or get some one else to go with you. While you are deciding, my leave of absence will expire.