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.
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