Kirk could not help thinking that a man of the consul’s wide acquaintance and business capacity could have raised the necessary funds without much trouble; but, not wishing to embarrass his host, he refrained from pressing the matter, and resigned himself as best he could to an extension of his exile.  Meanwhile, he decided to visit the Canal, for on every side he heard nothing but echoes of the great work, and he began to feel that he owed it to himself to view it.  But his plans were upset by the weather.  On the following day it began to rain, and it continued to rain day and night thereafter until Colon became a sodden, dripping horror.  The soil melted into a quagmire, the streets became sluices, the heavens closed down like a leaden pall, and the very air became saturated.  It was hot also, and sticky.  Indoors a mould began to form, rust grew like a fungus; outdoors the waving palm tops spilled a deluge upon roof and sidewalk at every gust; their trunks streamed like hydrants.

Kirk had never seen such a rain; it kept up hour after hour, day after day, until the monotony became maddening.  The instant he stepped out from shelter he was drenched, and even in his rooms he could discover no means of drying his clothes.  His garments, hanging beside his bed at night, were clammy and overlaid with moisture in the morning.  Things began to smell musty; leather objects grew long, hoary whiskers of green mould.  To his amazement, the inhabitants seemed quite oblivious to the change, however, and, while they agreed that the weather was a trifle misty, they pursued their duties as usual, assuring him that the rain might continue for a month.

It was too much for Kirk, however, and he deferred his trip over the “Line,” spending his time instead at the Wayfarers Club.  In his daylight hours he listened to Weeks’s unending dissertations upon the riches of the tropics; at night he played poker with such uniform bad luck that his opponents developed for him an increasing affection.

But all things have an end, and Friday morning broke clear and hot.

“We’ll hear from the old gentleman to-day, sure,” he told Weeks at breakfast.  “He’s regularity itself.  The train despatchers set their watches by him.”

“Now that it has cleared off, we must look into the cocoanut business,” the consul announced.  “I’ll make you a rich man, Kirk.”

“I’m rich, anyhow, or I will be.  Money doesn’t mean much to me.”

“Your father is—­many times a millionaire, isn’t he?” Weeks’ little red eyes were very bright and curious.  Kirk had seen that look many times before and knew its meaning.  Hence he replied rather brusquely: 

“So I believe.”  And a moment later declared his determination to avail himself of the good weather and see something of the town.  The prospect of squaring his account with this fawning fat man filled him with relief, and once away from the Consulate he stayed until late in the afternoon.  It was nearly dark when he strolled in, to inquire: