Sir Ernest Shackleton and Mr. John Quiller Rowett.
Not that Mooney and myself were called upon at once to “render down” into these cramped quarters. Probably with an idea of tempering the wind to the shorn lamb, Mr. John Quiller Rowett, who, by reason of his personal admiration for Sir Ernest Shackleton, was responsible for financing the expedition, took us under his comforting wing and gave us a great time at his Sussex home, Ely Place, Frant.
The Quest’s Goodly Company of Adventurers.
In my opinion Mr. Rowett deserves a high place in the records of Polar exploration. The bravest adventurers imaginable cannot fare forth in quest of the unknown without monetary backing; born adventurers, by reason of their very indomitableness, seldom have sufficient capital to finance their expeditions. If the Quest was to be a cannon ball designed to thrust herself into the frozen fastnesses of the South, Mr. Rowett unquestionably supplied the powder that fired her on that lengthy journey. Expecting nothing in return for his very considerable outlay, satisfied to know that he was helping a courageous man towards the realization of his ambition, Mr. Rowett cheerfully provided the major part of the funds for this, Shackleton’s last adventure, out of considerations of personal friendship for our leader and in the general interests of scientific research.
CHAPTER II
London’s Good-bye
On Saturday, September 17, precisely at one o’clock, Sir Ernest Shackleton gave the word to cast off, and the Quest started from St. Katharine’s Dock, Tower Bridge, on her journey across the foamy leagues. Enthusiastically she endeavoured to celebrate the occasion by a stentorian blast on her whistle; but no matter how diligently the lanyard was tugged, nothing beyond a hoarse moan resulted. The watching crowd, realizing the intention, cheered resoundingly; and as if put on its mettle by this tribute of farewell, the whistle made another and more successful effort; a fairly creditable note resulted as the Quest was towed and warped out through the dock-heads into the open river. With the great Tower Bridge opened for us, as if we were a liner of repute instead of one of the stormy petrels of the sea, we passed up to London Bridge, where we swung about and then dropped down-stream under our own power.