J.T. Maston could contain himself no longer.
Whether he shouted or ate, gesticulated or talked
most would be difficult to determine. Any way
he would not have given up his place for an empire,
“not even if the cannon—loaded, primed,
and fired at that very moment—were to blow
him in pieces into the planetary universe.”
A TELEGRAM.
The great work undertaken by the Gun Club was now
virtually ended, and yet two months would still elapse
before the day the projectile would start for the
moon. These two months would seem as long as two
years to the universal impatience. Until then
the smallest details of each operation had appeared
in the newspapers every day, and were eagerly devoured
by the public, but now it was to be feared that this
“interest dividend” would be much diminished,
and every one was afraid of no longer receiving his
daily share of emotions.
They were all agreeably disappointed: the most
unexpected, extraordinary, incredible, and improbable
incident happened in time to keep up the general excitement
to its highest pitch.
On September 30th, at 3.47 p.m., a telegram, transmitted
through the Atlantic Cable, arrived at Tampa Town
for President Barbicane.
He tore open the envelope and read the message, and,
notwithstanding his great self-control, his lips grew
pale and his eyes dim as he read the telegram.
The following is the text of the message stored in
the archives of the Gun Club:—
“France, Paris,
“September 30th, 4 a.m.
“Barbicane, Tampa Town, Florida, United States.
“Substitute a cylindro-conical projectile for
your spherical shell.
Shall go inside. Shall arrive by steamer Atlanta.
“MICHEL ARDAN.”
THE PASSENGER OF THE ATLANTA.
If this wonderful news, instead of coming by telegraph,
had simply arrived by post and in a sealed envelope—if
the French, Irish, Newfoundland, and American telegraph
clerks had not necessarily been acquainted with it—Barbicane
would not have hesitated for a moment. He would
have been quite silent about it for prudence’
sake, and in order not to throw discredit on his work.
This telegram might be a practical joke, especially
as it came from a Frenchman. What probability
could there be that any man should conceive the idea
of such a journey? And if the man did exist was
he not a madman who would have to be inclosed in a
strait-waistcoat instead of in a cannon-ball?
But the message was known, and Michel Ardan’s
proposition was already all over the States of the
Union, so Barbicane had no reason for silence.
He therefore called together his colleagues then in
Tampa Town, and, without showing what he thought about
it or saying a word about the degree of credibility
the telegram deserved, he read coldly the laconic
text.
