CHAPTER XXI.
NEWS FOR MARSTON!
In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the_Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escapedby a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drownedwithout a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive totell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared tobestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with theterrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What wasthe loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to theloss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic_denouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. Atlast the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who hadnot only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and mostdaring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the mostfearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and theirunselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such areflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced toproportions of the most absolute insignificance.
But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope ishard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt,and doubt had resuscitated hope.
"It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry hadthrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody hadinstantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing couldbe more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before theireyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing couldbe truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that itnow lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean.
But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refusedto accept the prevalent idea.
"They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd.
"Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water hereis deep enough to break a fall twice as great."
"They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd.
"Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their airapparatus is still on hand."
"They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd.
"They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "TheProjectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through whichit tore in a few seconds."
"If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock,they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubledlamentations.
"Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time!Let's fish 'em up at once!"
The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of theofficers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work andfish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such anoperation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply;difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, suchan attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had nomachinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involvingsuch a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceedingdifficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start thevessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantlytelegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club.
But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which ina satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailingcharts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low andsandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about aday's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yethaving telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was ofcourse not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approachedin winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection,not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bayof San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islandsto act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible.The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, butsome uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with SanFrancisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, alittle to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like thepresent when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving theslightest loss of time could be ventured.
Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly forthe bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on thePacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphiccommunication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt.San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probablymake in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in twodays and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better.
The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh atonce. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the considerationthat two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from theocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling thatany more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking itsposition by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at hisleisure on his return.
"Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where theProjectile fell."
"As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has beencarefully recorded already: 27 deg. 7' north latitude by 41 deg. 37' westlongitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington."
"All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!"
A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a coupleof stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up ondeck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefullylowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small endof the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of thesounding line that still remained in the water, and all possibleprecautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by thecontrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells ofocean.
It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The ChiefEngineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting.The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight forSan Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began toboil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power thatanimated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knotsan hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it wasnecessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast asthat of California.
Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no verydifficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it wasnot till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the GoldenGate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor PointBoneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with everyportion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as hedared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Hereexpecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outertelegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sailin large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers inattendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distancenot being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it.Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax.
Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the foggradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, lookingunder it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains eastof San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous andwell deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, theyhad doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between theislands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutesafterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stoutpairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore.
The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the su
mmit ofTelegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent,beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, theinevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The_Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her.A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to lookat even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be consideredrather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completelybroken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! Thevessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes forMegg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something_must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast asever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf.
The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but hemade no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity.
"Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle.
In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limbfrom limb.
"To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings,as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at lastsucceeded in securing him.
"To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after himlike fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioningthe boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth totell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had thesatisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder strickenaudience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary newsand still hungrily gaping for more.
By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearingfour different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington;To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club,Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and ToProfessor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass.
This dispatch read as follows:
"In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions--
BLOOMSBURY,
_Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA."
In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, thenewspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of theStates. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country hadheard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference inlongitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight.But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprisefell on them like a thunder clap.
We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects ofthis most unexpected intelligence on the world at large.
The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the_Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to beready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment.
The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting thatvery evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic oflearned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the questionin all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decidedopinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development offurther details.
At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. Thekind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one daypreviously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory,announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become theMoon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever tilltime should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this timethat such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations infact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebralexcitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable asthe rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably,some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst ofit was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery tothe world at large but he had even explained all about it with the wellknown easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. Theconsequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Clubhad split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Thosegentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every wordof the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for somethingof far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highlyadvanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who neverread anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea oflosing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn. Belfast, they said,had seen as much of the Projectile as he had of the "Open Polar Sea,"and the rest of the dispatch was mere twaddle, though asserted with allthe sternness of a religious dogma and enveloped in the usual scientificslang.
The meeting held in the Club House, 24 Monument Square, Baltimore, onthe evening of the 13th, had been therefore disorderly in the highestdegree. Long before the appointed hour, the great hall was denselypacked and the greatest uproar prevailed. Vice-President Wilcox took thechair, and all was comparatively quiet until Colonel Bloomsbury, theHonorary Secretary in Marston's absence, commenced to read Belfast'sdispatch. Then the scene, according to the account given in the nextday's _Sun_, from whose columns we condense our report, actually"beggared description." Roars, yells, cheers, counter-cheers, clappings,hissings, stampings, squallings, whistlings, barkings, mewings, cockcrowings, all of the most fearful and demoniacal character, turned theimmense hall into a regular pandemonium. In vain did President Wilcoxfire off his detonating bell, with a report on ordinary occasions asloud as the roar of a small piece of ordnance. In the dreadful noisethen prevailing it was no more heard than the fizz of a lucifer match.
Some cries, however, made themselves occasionally heard in the pauses ofthe din. "Read! Read!" "Dry up!" "Sit down!" "Give him an egg!" "Fairplay!" "Hurrah for Barbican!" "Down with his enemies!" "Free Speech!""Belfast won't bite you!" "He'd like to bite Barbican, but his teetharen't sharp enough!" "Barbican's a martyr to science, let's hear hisfate!" "Martyr be hanged; the Old Man is to the good yet!" "Belfast isthe grandest name in Science!" "Groans for the grandest name!" (Awfulgroans.) "Three cheers for Old Man Barbican!" (The exceptional strengthalone of the walls saved the building, from being blown out by anexplosion in which at least 5,000 pairs of lungs participated.)
"Three cheers for M'Nicholl and the Frenchman!" This was followed byanother burst of cheering so hearty, vigorous and long continued thatthe scientific party, or _Belfasters_ as they were now called, seeingthat further prolongation of the meet was perfectly useless, moved toadjourn. It was carried unanimously. President Wilcox left the chair,the meeting broke up in the wildest disorder--the scientists rathercrest fallen, but the Barbican men quite jubilant for having been sosuccessful in preventing the reading of that detested dispatch.
Little sleeping was done that night in Baltimore, and less business nextday. Even in the public schools so little work was done by the childrenthat S.T. Wallace, Esq., President of the Education Board, advised ananticipation of the usual Christmas recess by a week. Every one talkedof the Projectile; nothing was heard at the corners but discussionsregarding its probable fate. All Baltimore was immediately rent into twoparties, the _Belfasters_ and the _Barbicanites_. The latter was themost enthusiastic and noisy, the former decidedly the most numerous andinfluential.
Science, or rather pseudo-science, always exerts a mysterious attractionof an exceedingly powerful nature over the generality--that is, the moreignorant portion of the human race. Assert the most absurd nonsense,call it a scientific truth, and back it up with strange words which,like _potentiality_, etc., sound as if they had a meaning but inreality have none, and nine out of every ten men who read your book willbelieve you. Acquire a remarkable name in one branch of human knowledge,and prest
o! you are infallible in all. Who can contradict you, if youonly wrap up your assertions in specious phrases that not one man in amillion attempts to ascertain the real meaning of? We like so much to besaved the trouble of thinking, that it is far easier and morecomfortable to be led than to contradict, to fall in quietly with thegreat flock of sheep that jump blindly after their leader than to remainapart, making one's self ridiculous by foolishly attempting to argue.Real argument, in fact, is very difficult, for several reasons: first,you must understand your subject _well_, which is hardly likely;secondly, your opponent must also understand it well, which is even lesslikely; thirdly, you must listen patiently to his arguments, which isstill less likely; and fourthly, he must listen to yours, the leastlikely of all. If a quack advertises a panacea for all human ills at adollar a bottle, a hundred will buy the bottle, for one that will tryhow many are killed by it. What would the investigator gain by chargingthe quack with murder? Nobody would believe him, because nobody wouldtake the trouble to follow his arguments. His adversary, first in thefield, had gained the popular ear, and remained the unassailable masterof the situation. Our love of "Science" rests upon our admiration ofintellect, only unfortunately the intellect is too often that of otherpeople, not our own.
The very sound of Belfast's phrases, for instance, "satellite," "lunarattraction," "immutable path of its orbit," etc, convinced the greaterpart of the "intelligent" community that he who used them so flippantlymust be an exceedingly great man. Therefore, he had completely provedhis case. Therefore, the great majority of the ladies and gentlemen thatregularly attend the scientific lectures of the Peabody Institute,pronounced Barbican's fate and that of his companions to be sealed. Nextmorning's newspapers contained lengthy obituary notices of the GreatBalloon-attics as the witty man of the _New York Herald_ phrased it,some of which might be considered quite complimentary. These, allindustriously copied into the evening papers, the people were carefullyreading over again, some with honest regret, some deriving a great morallesson from an attempt exceedingly reprehensible in every point of view,but most, we are sorry to acknowledge, with a feeling of ill concealedpleasure. Had not they always said how it was to end? Was there anythingmore absurd ever conceived? Scientific men too! Hang such science! Ifyou want a real scientific man, no wind bag, no sham, take Belfast! _He_knows what he's talking about! No taking _him_ in! Didn't he by means ofthe Monster Telescope, see the Projectile, as large as life, whirlinground and round the Moon? Anyway, what else could have happened? Wasn'tit what anybody's common sense expected? Don't you remember aconversation we had with you one day? etc., etc.
The _Barbicanites_ were very doleful, but they never though of givingin. They would die sooner. When pressed for a scientific reply to ascientific argument, they denied that there was any argument to replyto. What! Had not Belfast seen the Projectile? No! Was not the GreatTelescope then good for anything? Yes, but not for everything! Did notBelfast know his business? No! Did they mean to say that he had seennothing at all? Well, not exactly that, but those scientific gentlemencan seldom be trusted; in their rage for discovery, they make a mountainout of a molehill, or, what is worse, they start a theory and thendistort facts to support it. Answers of this kind either led directly toa fight, or the _Belfasters_ moved away thoroughly disgusted with theignorance of their opponents, who could not see a chain of reasoning asbright as the noonday sun.
Things were in this feverish state on the evening of the 14th, when, allat once, Bloomsbury's dispatch arrived in Baltimore. I need not say thatit dropped like a spark in a keg of gun powder. The first question allasked was: Is it genuine or bogus? real or got up by the stockbrokers?But a few flashes backwards and forwards over the wires soon settledthat point. The stunning effects of the new blow were hardly over whenthe _Barbicanites_ began to perceive that the wonderful intelligence wasdecidedly in their favor. Was it not a distinct contradiction of thewhole story told by their opponents? If Barbican and his friends werelying at the bottom of the Pacific, they were certainly notcircumgyrating around the Moon. If it was the Projectile that had brokenoff the bowsprit of the _Susquehanna_, it could not certainly be theProjectile that Belfast had seen only the day previous doing the dutyof a satellite. Did not the truth of one incident render the other anabsolute impossibility? If Bloomsbury was right, was not Belfast an ass?Hurrah!
The new revelation did not improve poor Barbican's fate a bit--no matterfor that! Did not the _party_ gain by it? What would the _Belfasters_say now? Would not they hold down their heads in confusion and disgrace?
The _Belfasters_, with a versatility highly creditable to human nature,did nothing of the kind. Rapidly adopting the very line of tactics theyhad just been so severely censuring, they simply denied the whole thing.What! the truth of the Bloomsbury dispatch? Yes, every word of it! Hadnot Bloomsbury seen the Projectile? No! Were not his eyes good foranything? Yes, but not for everything! Did not the Captain know hisbusiness? No! Did they mean to say that the bowsprit of the_Susquehanna_ had not been broken off? Well, not exactly that, but thosenaval gentlemen are not always to be trusted; after a pleasant littlesupper, they often see the wrong light-house, or, what is worse, intheir desire to shield their negligence from censure, they dodge theblame by trying to show that the accident was unavoidable. The_Susquehanna's_ bowsprit had been snapped off, in all probability, bysome sudden squall, or, what was still more likely, some little aerolitehad struck it and frightened the crew into fits. When answers of thiskind did not lead to blows, the case was an exceptional one indeed. Thecontestants were so numerous and so excited that the police at lastbegan to think of letting them fight it out without any interference.Marshal O'Kane, though ably assisted by his 12 officers and 500patrolmen, had a terrible time of it. The most respectable men inBaltimore, with eyes blackened, noses bleeding, and collars torn, sawthe inside of a prison that night for the first time in all their lives.Men that even the Great War had left the warmest of friends, now abusedeach other like fishwomen. The prison could not hold the half of thosearrested. They were all, however, discharged next morning, for thesimple reason that the Mayor and the aldermen had been themselvesengaged in so many pugilistic combats during the night that they werealtogether disabled from attending to their magisterial duties next day.
Our readers, however, may be quite assured that, even in the wildestwhirl of the tremendous excitement around them, all the members of theBaltimore Gun Club did not lose their heads. In spite of the determinedopposition of the _Belfasters_ who would not allow the Bloomsburydispatch to be read at the special meeting called that evening, a fewsucceeded in adjourning to a committee-room, where Joseph Wilcox, Esq.,presiding, our old friends Colonel Bloomsbury, Major Elphinstone, TomHunter, Billsby the brave, General Morgan, Chief Engineer John Murphy,and about as many more as were sufficient to form a quorum, declaredthemselves to be in regular session, and proceeded quietly to debate onthe nature of Captain Bloomsbury's dispatch.
Was it of a nature to justify immediate action or not? Decidedunanimously in the affirmative. Why so? Because, whether actually trueor untrue, the incident it announced was not impossible. Had it indeedannounced the Projectile to have fallen in California or in SouthAmerica, there would have been good valid reasons to question itsaccuracy. But by taking into consideration the Moon's distance, and thetime elapsed between the moment of the start and that of the presumedfall (about 10 days), and also the Earth's revolution in the meantime,it was soon calculated that the point at which the Projectile shouldstrike our globe, if it struck it at all, would be somewhere about 27 deg.north latitude, and 42 deg. west longitude--the very identical spot given inthe Captain's dispatch! This certainly was a strong point in its favor,especially as there was positively nothing valid whatever to urgeagainst it.
A decided resolution was therefore immediately taken. Everything thatman could do was to be done at once, in order to fish up their braveassociates from the depths of the Pacific. That very night, in fact,whilst the streets of Baltimore were still resounding with t
he yells ofcontending _Belfasters_ and _Barbicanites_, a committee of four, Morgan,Hunter, Murphy, and Elphinstone, were speeding over the Alleghanies in aspecial train, placed at their disposal by the _Baltimore and OhioRailroad Company_, and fast enough to land them in Chicago pretty earlyon the following evening.
Here a fresh locomotive and a Pullman car taking charge of them, theywere whirled off to Omaha, reaching that busy locality at about suppertime on the evening of December 16th. The Pacific Train, as it wascalled though at that time running no further west than Julesburg,instead of waiting for the regular hour of starting, fired up that verynight, and was soon pulling the famous Baltimore Club men up the slopesof the Nebraska at the rate of forty miles an hour. They were awakenedbefore light next morning by the guard, who told them that Julesburg,which they were just entering, was the last point so far reached by therails. But their regret at this circumstance was most unexpectedly andjoyfully interrupted by finding their hands warmly clasped and theirnames cheerily cried out by their old and beloved friend, J.T. Marston,the illustrious Secretary of the Baltimore Gun Club.
At the close of the first volume of our entertaining and veracioushistory, we left this most devoted friend and admirer of Barbicanestablished firmly at his post on the summit of Long's Peak, beside theGreat Telescope, watching the skies, night and day, for some traces ofhis departed friends. There, as the gracious Reader will also remember,he had come a little too late to catch that sight of the Projectilewhich Belfast had at first reported so confidently, but of which theProfessor by degrees had begun to entertain the most serious doubts.
In these doubts, however, Marston, strange to say, would not permithimself for one moment to share. Belfast might shake his head as much ashe pleased; he, Marston, was no fickle reed to be shaken by every wind;he firmly believed the Projectile to be there before him, actually insight, if he could only see it. All the long night of the 13th, and evenfor several hours of the 14th, he never quitted the telescope for asingle instant. The midnight sky was in magnificent order; not a speckdimmed its azure of an intensely dark tint. The stars blazed out likefires; the Moon refused none of her secrets to the scientists who weregazing at her so intently that night from the platform on the summit ofLong's Peak. But no black spot crawling over her resplendent surfacerewarded their eager gaze. Marston indeed would occasionally utter ajoyful cry announcing some discovery, but in a moment after he wasconfessing with groans that it was all a false alarm. Towards morning,Belfast gave up in despair and went to take a sleep; but no sleep forMarston. Though he was now quite alone, the assistants having alsoretired, he kept on talking incessantly to himself, expressing the mostunbounded confidence in the safety of his friends, and the absolutecertainty of their return. It was not until some hours after the Sunhad risen and the Moon had disappeared behind the snowy peaks of thewest, that he at last withdrew his weary eye from the glass throughwhich every image formed by the great reflector was to be viewed. Thecountenance he turned on Belfast, who had now come back, was rueful inthe extreme. It was the image of grief and despair.
"Did you see nothing whatever during the night, Professor?" he asked ofBelfast, though he knew very well the answer he was to get.
"Nothing whatever."
"But you saw them once, didn't you?"
"Them! Who?"
"Our friends."
"Oh! the Projectile--well--I think I must have made some oversight."
"Don't say that! Did not Mr. M'Connell see it also?"
"No. He only wrote out what I dictated."
"Why, you must have seen it! I have seen it myself!"
"You shall never see it again! It's shot off into space."
"You're as wrong now as you thought you were right yesterday."
"I'm sorry to say I was wrong yesterday; but I have every reason tobelieve I'm right to-day."
"We shall see! Wait till to-night!"
"To-night! Too late! As far as the Projectile is concerned, night is nowno better than day."
The learned Professor was quite right, but in a way which he did notexactly expect. That very evening, after a weary day, apparently a monthlong, during which Marston sought in vain for a few hours' repose, justas all hands, well wrapped up in warm furs, were getting ready to assumetheir posts once more near the mouth of the gigantic Telescope, Mr.M'Connell hastily presented himself with a dispatch for Belfast.
The Professor was listlessly breaking the envelope, when he uttered asharp cry of surprise.
"Hey!" cried Marston quickly. "What's up now?"
"Oh!! The Pro--pro--projectile!!"
"What of it? What? Oh what?? Speak!!"
"IT'S BACK!!"
Marston uttered a wild yell of mingled horror, surprise, and joy, jumpeda little into the air, and then fell flat and motionless on theplatform. Had Belfast shot him with a ten pound weight, right betweenthe two eyes, he could not have knocked him flatter or stiffer. Havingneither slept all night, nor eaten all day, the poor fellow's system hadbecome so weak that such unexpected news was really more than he couldbear. Besides, as one of the Cambridge men of the party, a young medicalstudent, remarked: the thin, cold air of these high mountains wasextremely enervating.
The astronomers, all exceedingly alarmed, did what they could to recovertheir friend from his fit, but it was nearly ten minutes before they hadthe satisfaction of seeing his limbs moving with a slight quiver andhis breast beginning to heave. At last the color came back to his faceand his eyes opened. He stared around for a few seconds at his friends,evidently unconscious, but his senses were not long in returning.
"Say!" he uttered at last in a faint voice.
"Well!" replied Belfast.
"Where is that infernal Pro--pro--jectile?"
"In the Pacific Ocean."
"What??"
He was on his feet in an instant.
"Say that again!"
"In the Pacific Ocean."
"Hurrah! All right! Old Barbican's not made into mincemeat yet! No,sirree! Let's start!"
"Where for?"
"San Francisco!"
"When?"
"This instant!"
"In the dark?"
"We shall soon have the light of the Moon! Curse her! it's the least shecan do after all the trouble she has given us!"