Before this time, I had thought of securing a companion to share the venture; and I wasted a good deal of time and money seeking such a one.
The number of people who had the expedition in mind surprised me—I met them constantly.
"Ah, yes, great idea! D'ye know I've been thinking about tackling it for some time?"
"Well, co'on."
Then there was an awkward pause.
Generally I had to see them about it in the morning. In the morning—"Sorry, old fellow, awfully sorry, but can't manage to get away just now. Great idea, though, isn't it?"
One whom I came to know intimately (we were, and continue, excellent friends) was at first all eagerness to join. But he too gradually cooled off and reluctantly and half abashed, but finally, backed out.
And in his case, why?
Not because of the expense, nor through reading or hearing of treacherous blacks, of venomous snakes, of alligators and other interesting things we had so eagerly looked forward to throwing stones at. Not because of the certain hardships and probable perils to be encountered; the likelihood of being stricken with fever; the danger of getting bushed, and experiencing the terrors of thirst as well as the horrors of hunger (for we knew we could carry precious little of either water or food).
No; just this, half apologetically said, and then only with an effort that did him credit—"The general impression seems to be that the thing, you know, isn't to be done. When they hear of our starting out to try it, what will the fellows say?"