“And what do you conclude from that, talker eternal?” asked President Barbicane.

“I conclude that we have twenty-six minutes,” answered Ardan.

“Twenty-four only,” said Nicholl.

“Twenty-four, then, if you like, brave captain,” answered Ardan; “twenty-four minutes, during which we might investigate—­”

“Michel,” said Barbicane, “during our journey we shall have plenty of time to investigate the deepest questions.  Now we must think of starting.”

“Are we not ready?”

“Certainly.  But there are still some precautions to be taken to deaden the first shock as much as possible!”

“Have we not water-cushions placed between movable partitions elastic enough to protect us sufficiently?”

“I hope so, Michel,” answered Barbicane gently; “but I am not quite sure!”

“Ah, the joker!” exclaimed Michel Ardan.  “He hopes!  He is not quite sure!  And he waits till we are encased to make this deplorable acknowledgment!  I ask to get out.”

“By what means?” asked Barbicane.

“Well!” said Michel Ardan, “it would be difficult.  We are in the train, and the guard’s whistle will be heard in twenty-four minutes.”

“Twenty!” ejaculated Nicholl.

The three travellers looked at one another for a few seconds.  Then they examined all the objects imprisoned with them.

“Everything is in its place,” said Barbicane.  “The question now is where we can place ourselves so as best to support the departing shock.  The position we assume must be important too—­we must prevent the blood rushing too violently to our heads.”

“That is true,” said Nicholl.

“Then,” answered Michel Ardan, always ready to suit the action to the word, “we will stand on our heads like the clowns at the circus.”

“No,” said Barbicane; “but let us lie on our sides; we shall thus resist the shock better.  When the bullet starts it will not much matter whether we are inside or in front.”

“If it comes to ‘not much matter’ I am more reassured,” answered Michel Ardan.

“Do you approve of my idea, Nicholl?” asked Barbicane.

“Entirely,” answered the captain.  “Still thirteen minutes and a-half.”

“Nicholl is not a man,” exclaimed Michel; “he is a chronometer marking the seconds, and with eight holes in—­”

But his companions were no longer listening to him, and they were making their last preparations with all the coolness imaginable.  They looked like two methodical travellers taking their places in the train and making themselves as comfortable as possible.  One wonders, indeed, of what materials these American hearts are made, to which the approach of the most frightful danger does not add a single pulsation.

Three beds, thick and solidly made, had been placed in the projectile.  Nicholl and Barbicane placed them in the centre of the disc that formed the movable flooring.  There the three travellers were to lie down a few minutes before their departure.