“I do wish they would settle it, without troubling me,” groaned Ray. “Lispenard’s right. A man’s a fool who votes, or serves on a jury, or joins a regiment. What’s the good of being a good citizen, when the other fellow won’t be? I’m sick of being good for nothing.”
“Have you just discovered that?” laughed Ogden. “You’re progressing.”
“No,” said Ray, “I am good for one thing. Like a good many other men I furnish the raw material on which the dearest of women may lavish her affection. Heigh-ho! I wish I was before the fire with her now. It’s rather rough to have visits to one’s wife cut short in this way.”
Peter rose. “I am going to get some sleep, for we don’t know what’s before us, and may not have much after to-night. But, Ray, there’s a harder thing than leaving one’s wife at such a time.”
“What’s that, Peter?” asked Ray, looking at Peter with surprise.
“To know that there is no one to whom your going or return really matters.” Peter passed out of the cabin.
“By George!” said Ray, “if it wasn’t Peter, I’d have sworn there was salt water in his eyes.”
“Anneke has always insisted that he was lonely. I wonder if she’s right?” Ogden queried.
“If he is, why the deuce does he get off in those solitary quarters of his?”
“Ray,” said Ogden, “I have a sovereign contempt for a man who answers one question with another.”