Low pressure (1001) at Winnipeg—that would be Cornelia rushing southeast. Low pressure (1009) at Corpus Christi—that meant a weak storm developing on the Texas coast; it had begun to show the day before. Towering high pressure (1044) at Fort Simpson in the Klondike. Clear skies and snappy cold along the usually drenched Alaskan coast. And most startling of all, the sudden fall of temperatures behind Cornelia’s cold front—over all the Canadian plains and south into Montana and North Dakota. Williston reported twenty-five below, Calgary thirty-seven, Edmonton thirty-nine, Dawson fifty-eight.

Yes, Maria would come driving in hard; even the temperature over the Yukon was an indication.

Then the J. M. started suddenly, for at his elbow was the Old Master. Wraith-like he had slipped in, and now was looking at the maze of figures which covered the map.

“Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Good morning,” said the J. M. Then thinking he had been too abrupt, he added awkwardly: “You’re out early.”

“I cannot sleep much. I am getting old. I like to see the map.”

He stood there blinking his old eyes, and the Chief moved in and began to draw fronts.

•

Only now and then was the old man’s sight clear enough for him to see the figures. The red, blue, and purple lines which they put on maps nowadays were, he thought, very confusing. Still, he could make out a well-developed storm over Winnipeg.

“Well, sir, how does it look this morning?” said the Chief.

“You have not finished the map,” said the old man, and his shaky voice sounded reproachful. Then he went on simply: “There will be rain. I have learned that even the longest droughts come to an end.” He was not looking at the map, but seemed to be staring somewhere far off.

•

The Chief looked across the map at the J. M., and they smiled at the way the Old Master talked. The Chief’s pencil was moving deftly; the map was shaping up.

“And what do you think of it?” said the Chief to the J. M. He was drawing the youngster out, not asking advice; but he saw immediately that the J. M. took the question seriously.

“I said yesterday it would rain inside forty-eight hours. I say now, rain inside twenty-four hours.”

The Chief studied the map. As had happened often before, he wished for the moment that he were engaged in some simple line of work such as being a G-man or teaching literature. All very well for the others to predict rain—the one had his inner light, and the other his textbooks. And neither of them was responsible. But the Chief knew what would happen if he went to the typewriter and tapped off RAIN on the forecast blank.