Zachary took out a sheet of paper covered with figures. He had worked the whole thing out. So much—equipment, so much—trade, so much—concessions, so much—emergencies. “My last mag!” he ended, “a thousand short; the ship's ready, and if I'm not there within a month my chance is as good as gone.”
This was the pith of his confidences—an appeal for money, and we all looked as men will when that crops up.
“Mad!” muttered the old man, looking at the sea.
“No,” said Zachary. That one word was more eloquent than all the rest of his words put together. This fellow is no visionary. His scheme may be daring, and unprincipled, but—he knows very well what he's about.
“Well!” said old Pearse, “you shall have five 'undred of my money, if it's only to learn what yu're made of. Wheel me in!” Zachary wheeled him into the house, but soon came back.
“The old man's cheque for five hundred pounds!” he said, holding it up. “Mr. Treffry, give me another, and you shall have a third of the profits.”
I expected Dan to give a point-blank refusal. But he only asked:
“Would that clear you for starting?”
“With that,” said Zachary, “I can get to sea in a fortnight.”
“Good!” Dan said slowly. “Give me a written promise! To sea in fourteen days and my fair share on the five hundred pounds—no more—no less.”