The following morning Joel awoke to find a cold rain falling from a
dull sky. The elms in the yard were dripping from every leaf and branch,
and the walks held little gray pools that made the trip to breakfast a
series of splashes. In the afternoon Joel got into his oldest clothes
and tramped over to Hampton House. The window of West's room looked
bright and cheerful, for a big wood fire was blazing on the hearth
within. Joel kicked the mud from his shoes, and passing through the
great white door with its old-fashioned fanlight above, tapped at West's
room. A faint response from beyond the portal summoned him in.

The owner of the room was sandpapering a golf shaft before the fire, and
a deep expression of discontent was on his face. But his countenance
lighted up at sight of his visitor, and he leaped to his feet and drew a
second armchair before the hearth.

"You're a brick, March! I was just wishing you roomed near enough so
that I could ask you to come over and talk a bit. Isn't it a
horrible day?"

"It's awfully wet; but then it has to rain sometimes, I suppose,"
answered Joel as he took off his overcoat.

"Yes, but it doesn't have to rain just when a fellow has fixed to
practice golf, does it?" West growled. Joel laughed.

"I thought the real, simon-pure golfer didn't mind the weather."

"He doesn't as long as he can get over the ground, but the links here is
like a quagmire when it rains. But never mind, we'll have a good chummy