The Chief came, and looked at the map, particularly at the Arctic stations. He said nothing, but two or three times he emitted his doubting little nasal grunt. The J. M. wanted to ask a question, and felt his scientific curiosity urging him to gather information in all humility wherever it might be found. But his pride as a recent distinguished graduate of the Meteorological Institute suddenly objected to asking a question of the Chief whom he often felt to be nothing but a weather-guesser. He compromised with an affirmation which was really a question:

“That polar air-mass is about ready to let go, I should say.”

“Hn-n? Well—yes, and no.”

The tone of voice was so level that not until after several seconds did the J. M. begin to wonder whether the non-committal reply had been a snub. At the idea he grew angry—these Weather Bureau old-timers! He remembered his experience of the early morning.

“That old fellow was around again when I was taking observations. He gets in the way quite a bit. He says it’s going to rain—he knows. Maybe we’d better take him back on the staff.”

It was funny the way when you started talking about personalities, other people gathered round. Now Whitey and Mr. Ragan were standing right there.

“Hn-n?” said the Chief. “The Old Master! That’s what Whitey calls him. Well, he was a good forecaster, one of the best, for his time.”

“Good forecasting demands good data and good theory,” said the J. M., quoting a professor’s lecture. “They didn’t have either, fifty years ago; but they may have been good guessers, and their wording was always vague.”

“I met him down below,” said the Chief. “He told me about the rain too. Of course, he’s right—as long as he doesn’t mention any time-limit. It’s always going to rain. What they say about the barometer—the only time you can believe a barometer is when it reads CHANGE; the weather is always sure to change.”

He moved off, but Whitey and Mr. Ragan remained.

“The Old Master is all right,” said Whitey belligerently.

“He’s nuts!” said the J. M., not mincing words now that the Chief was gone. “He’s got a light in his eye. Why, this morning on that little rickety platform on the roof I watched out. He might push somebody off!”

“Nuts yourself! He’s past ninety, and you’re a good strong kid. You sure must be easy to scare.”

“He’s a bore too. He told me about Grant’s inauguration again.”

“All right, we’ve all heard that story pretty often too. But when I get to be as old as the Old Master I’ll probably tell how we predicted forty days and forty nights of rain for Noah’s flood—right here in this office.”