A considerable portion of Anthony's time in college had been devoted to a course in draw poker--recitations, so to speak, being conducted in the upper rooms of a Greek letter "frat," and he cherished the belief that he had at least learned to distinguish a spade flush from an "Arkansas blaze." But he soon found that these men had forgotten more about the game than he could ever hope to learn at any university, and when the crowd broke up at midnight he signed his name to a tab for forty dollars. Early the next day the following cablegram was left at the American Consulate: WEEKS, Consul, Colon. Anthony absent, returns Friday. COPLEY. "Copley is the Governor's secretary," Kirk explained. "That means that I'll miss the Santa Cruz and have to wait another week." "I'm delighted," the consul said, heartily. "Perhaps you could stake me to a ticket. I'll remit when I get to New York." "My pay isn't due for a fortnight," Weeks explained after an instant's hesitation. "You see, I'm interested in so many ventures it keeps me--well, broke. Anyhow, you can't go until we have arranged an investment for your father." 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.