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!”

CHAPTER XXII.

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.