CHAPTER XI
A WALK IN THE RAIN
ONCE on the sidewalk Mr. Jennings said, "I'm glad to know your name, for I know you by sight already. Shall we have any umbrella?"
"Let's not," I replied. "I like the mist. But how do you know me?"
"I thought you would—like the mist, I mean—because you seem to like my woods so well."
"Your woods! Why—what woods?"
"The ones you walk in every day," he cheerfully replied; "they're mine. I discovered them, and to whom else should they belong?"
"I've been trespassing, then."
"Oh, no! I'm delighted to lend my woods to you. If you wear blinders and keep your eyes straight ahead and stuff your ears with cotton so you can't hear the trolleys, you can almost cheat yourself into thinking they're real woods with a mountain to climb at the end of them. Do you like that little rustic seat I made beside the lake?"
"Did you make it?"
"Yes, Saturdays, for recreation last year. I'm afraid it doesn't fit very well." He smiled from out
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