“How much will it cost?” asked Mr. Somers.

“I lay it at £2,000,” I answered.  “You see, we must have plenty of men and guns and stores, also trade goods and presents.”

“I call that cheap.  But supposing, Mr. Quatermain, that the expedition proves successful and the plant is secured, what then?”

“Then I propose that Brother John, who found it and of whom I have told you, should take one-third of whatever it might sell for, that I as captain of the expedition should take one-third, and that whoever finds the necessary money should take the remaining third.”

“Good!  That’s settled.”

“What’s settled?” I asked.

“Why, that we should divide in the proportions you named, only I bargain to be allowed to take my whack in kind—­I mean in plant, and to have the first option of purchasing the rest of the plant at whatever value may be agreed upon.”

“But, Mr. Somers, do you mean that you wish to find £2,000 and make this expedition in person?”

“Of course I do.  I thought you understood that.  That is, if you will have me.  Your old friend, the lunatic, you and I will together seek for and find this golden flower.  I say that’s settled.”

On the morrow accordingly, it was settled with the help of a document, signed in duplicate by both of us.

Before these arrangements were finally concluded, however, I insisted that Mr. Somers should meet my late companion, Charlie Scroope, when I was not present, in order that the latter might give him a full and particular report concerning myself.  Apparently the interview was satisfactory, at least so I judged from the very cordial and even respectful manner in which young Somers met me after it was over.  Also I thought it my duty to explain to him with much clearness in the presence of Scroope as a witness, the great dangers of such an enterprise as that on which he proposed to embark.  I told him straight out that he must be prepared to find his death in it from starvation, fever, wild beasts or at the hands of savages, while success was quite problematical and very likely would not be attained.

“You are taking these risks,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered, “but they are incident to the rough trade I follow, which is that of a hunter and explorer.  Moreover, my youth is past, and I have gone through experiences and bereavements of which you know nothing, that cause me to set a very slight value on life.  I care little whether I die or continue in the world for some few added years.  Lastly, the excitement of adventure has become a kind of necessity for me.  I do not think that I could live in England for very long.  Also I’m a fatalist.  I believe that when my time comes I must go, that this hour is foreordained and that nothing I can do will either hasten or postpone it by one moment.  Your circumstances are different.  You are quite young.  If you stay here and approach your father in a proper spirit, I have no doubt but that he will forget all the rough words he said to you the other day, for which indeed you know you gave him some provocation.  Is it worth while throwing up such prospects and undertaking such dangers for the chance of finding a rare flower?  I say this to my own disadvantage, since I might find it hard to discover anyone else who would risk £2,000 upon such a venture, but I do urge you to weigh my words.”