One man put the matter succinctly: "Look here, Mayo, if you came in
here, looking the way you do, and asked me for a quarter to buy a
meal with, I'd think it was perfectly natural, and would slip you the
quarter. But not ten thousand--you don't look the part."
"What have my clothes got to do with it? I haven't time to think about
clothes. I can't wear a plug hat in a diving-suit. I've been working.
And I'm still on the job. The way I look ought to show you that I mean
business."
But they turned him down. In half a dozen offices they listened and
shook their heads or curtly refused to look into the thing. He had not
come ashore to beg for assistance as if it were a favor. He had come
feeling certain that this time he had a valuable thing to offer. His
labors had racked his body, his nerves were on edge, his temper was
short. When they refused to help he cursed them and tore out. That they
allowed his personal appearance to influence their judgment stirred his
fury--it was so unjust to his self-sacrificing devotion to his task.
He soon exhausted his circle of acquaintances, but the rebuffs made him
angry instead of despondent. Thrusting rudely past pedestrians who were
polite and sleek, he marched along the street, scowling.
And then his eyes fell on a face that gave a fresh stir to all the
bitterness that was in him.
He saw Fletcher Fogg standing outside the Nicholas Hotel. The day was
bland, the spring sun was warming, but it was evident that Mr. Fogg was
not basking contentedly; his countenance was fully as gloomy as that of
Captain Mayo, and he chewed on an unlighted cigar and spat snippets of
tobacco over the curb while he pondered.
Mayo was not in a mood to reason with his passion. He had just been
battering his pride and persistence up against men whose manner
of refusal showed that they remembered what Fletcher Fogg had said
regarding the prospects of successful floating of the Conomo. There
stood the ponderous pirate, blocking Mayo's way on the sidewalk, just
as he had blocked the young man's prospects in life in the Montana
affair--just as he had closed avenues of credit. Mayo bumped against him
and crowded him back across the sidewalk to the hotel's granite wall. He
put his two raw, swollen hands on Fogg's immaculate waistcoat and shoved
salt-stained, work-worn, and bearded face close.
Even then the promoter did not seem to recognize Mayo. He blinked
apprehensively. He looked about as if he intended to summon help.