But it was long before she was able to comfort him or make him forget the offence of which he had been guilty; remaining on his knees he continued to apologise.
“Emmie, you’re such an angel—you can make allowances and find excuses. It’s only that I am so cursedly miserable about all this. If you think, it is devilish bad luck, isn’t it? To be kicked up to the equator as I’ve been—to be cooked in that damned Turkish bath of a New Guinea—to be kept there these years—how many?—with the very colour bleached out of my hair and the marrow grilling to nothing in my bones—while your Newnesses and your Harmsworths, your admirals and cabinet ministers, your lords and fine ladies, have all been putting their heads together and opening their purse strings—yes, and your kings and mikados too—to fit out and give carte blanche to any one who has the cheek to tell ’em he knows the way to the South Pole! And I’m not as young as I used to be, Emmie. I don’t feel it myself, but the others say it; they throw it in my face. I’d show them, if I had the chance—now. In another ten years it may be too late and I may be really done for then.”
A few days after this she told him that the balance of his banking account would very soon amount to half the sum he had mentioned; he could rely on there being five thousand pounds to his credit. He would scarcely believe it possible. Had the money fallen out of the sky? She said that the cheap editions of his books had been selling marvellously well, and reminded him that royalties for six months were due from the publishers.
He asked no more questions. He was frowningly absorbed, he rumpled his grey hair and cogitated; then he laughed gaily. “Five thousand! It’s a nucleus. If only I could add to it somehow.”
It was of course futile for him to think of taking the hat round here in England; the public had thrown their very last threepenny bits into the hats of those other beggars. Then suddenly he said he would try America. “Emmie, there’s a fellow out there who believes in me—a prince of good fellows—I stayed with him at his house on Long Island—lovely place, like Hampton Court Palace on a small scale—and he’s rolling in money. What the devil’s his name? Porter? Potter? James—yes, James L. Porter! That’s it. By Jove, I’ll see if I can touch him.”
Immediately he cabled to Mr. Porter of New York, asking him to put up five thousand pounds. He made the message as eloquent as possible, not sparing words or considering rates, and he grinned while he read it with mock emphasis to Emmie. He was a schoolboy again, full of life and impudence; the gun-running Dyke of ancient days. “Now, old girl, if my pal’s a sportsman—as I think he is—he’ll do it.”
He despatched his cablegram early in the morning and fidgeted all day, calculating the difference of time between London and New York, walking about the rooms of the flat.
At six in the evening the reply came. Mr. James L. Porter had cabled the money.
Dyke was almost delirious. He kissed Louisa on both cheeks, he waltzed with Miss Verinder, he executed a pas seul and made the cat do a record jump. Then he sang pæans in honour of the Yanks—those sportsmen over the pond—with a chorus of disparagement for the citizens of his native land. “Is there an Englishman alive who would have sent that answer? They don’t waste time talking over there, they do. What was it Tennyson said? Our old England will go down in twaddle—or was it babble?—at last. And I scarcely knew the fellow. Any obligation was on my side, not his. He entertained me royally. Bravo, Porter. What’s the matter with James L. P.? He’s all right.”
At once he sketched his plan. There could be no difficulty in collecting staunch comrades; he knew dozens of likely men. Of course everything must be done cheaply. He would go to Greenland at once to get dogs; he would buy a whaler, fit her out as best he could, and go down light—a scratch lot, certainly. “But with luck, Emmie”; and his eyes flashed. “Get there before Captain Scott, eh? Why not?”