WHEREIN BOYD EMERSON IS TWICE AMAZED
Nearly a month had elapsed when Emerson at last expressed to George the discouragement that for several days had lain silently in both men's minds.
"It looks like failure, doesn't it?"
"Sure does! You've played your string out, eh?"
"Absolutely. I've done everything except burglary, but I can't raise that hundred thousand dollars. From the way we started off it looked easy, but times are hard and I've bled my friends of every dollar they can spare. In fact, some of them have put in more than they can afford."
"It's an awful big piece of money," Balt admitted, with a sigh.
"I never fully realized before how very large," Boyd said. "And yet, without that amount the Seattle bank won't back us for the remainder."
"Oh, it's no use to tackle the business on a small scale." Big George pondered for a moment. "We can't wait much longer. We'd ought to be on the coast now. We're shy twenty-five thousand dollars, eh?"
"Yes, and I can't see any possible way of raising it. I've done the best I could, and so has Clyde, but it's no use."
The strain of the past month was evident in Emerson's face, which was worn and tired, as if from sleepless nights. Of late he had lapsed again into that despondent mood which Fraser had observed in Alaska, his moments of depression growing more frequent as the precious days slipped past. Every waking hour he had devoted to the promotion of his enterprise. He had laughed at rebuffs and refused discouragement; he had solicited every man who seemed in any way likely to be interested. He had gone from office to office, his hours regulated by watch and note-book, always retailing the same facts, always convincingly lucid and calmly enthusiastic. But a scarcity of money seemed prevalent. Those who sought investment either had better opportunities or refused to finance an undertaking so far from home, and apparently so hazardous.