Their existence together would soon have become impossible,
but an unexpected event cut short these eternal discussions.
During the night between the 14th and 15th of December
the two irreconcilable friends were occupied in observing
the lunar disc. J.T. Maston was, as usual,
saying strong things to the learned Belfast, who was
getting angry too. The Secretary of the Gun Club
declared for the thousandth time that he had just
perceived the projectile, adding even that Michel
Ardan’s face had appeared at one of the port-lights.
He was emphasising his arguments by a series of gestures
which his redoubtable hook rendered dangerous.
At that moment Belfast’s servant appeared upon
the platform—it was 10 p.m.—and
gave him a telegram. It was the message from the
Commander of the Susquehanna.
Belfast tore the envelope, read the inclosure, and
uttered a cry.
“What is it?” said J.T. Maston.
“It’s the bullet!”
“What of that?”
“It has fallen upon the earth!”
Another cry; this time a howl answered him.
He turned towards J.T. Maston. The unfortunate
fellow, leaning imprudently over the metal tube, had
disappeared down the immense telescope—a
fall of 280 feet! Belfast, distracted, rushed
towards the orifice of the reflector.
He breathed again. J.T. Maston’s steel
hook had caught in one of the props which maintained
the platform of the telescope. He was uttering
formidable cries.
Belfast called. Help came, and the imprudent
secretary was hoisted up, not without trouble.
He reappeared unhurt at the upper orifice.
“Suppose I had broken the mirror?” said
he.
“You would have paid for it,” answered
Belfast severely.
“And where has the infernal bullet fallen?”
asked J.T. Maston.
“Into the Pacific.”
“Let us start at once.”
A quarter of an hour afterwards the two learned friends
were descending the slope of the Rocky Mountains,
and two days afterwards they reached San Francisco
at the same time as their friends of the Gun Club,
having killed five horses on the road.
Elphinstone, Blomsberry, and Bilsby rushed up to them
upon their arrival.
“What is to be done?” they exclaimed.
“The bullet must be fished up,” answered
J.T. Maston, “and as soon as possible!”
PICKED UP.
The very spot where the projectile had disappeared
under the waves was exactly known. The instruments
for seizing it and bringing it to the surface of the
ocean were still wanting. They had to be invented
and then manufactured. American engineers could
not be embarrassed by such a trifle. The grappling-irons
once established and steam helping, they were assured
of raising the projectile, notwithstanding its weight,
which diminished the density of the liquid amidst which
it was plunged.
