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