In the meanwhile Ardan, who could not remain quiet, turned round his narrow prison like a wild animal in a cage, talking to his friends and his dogs, Diana and Satellite, to whom it will be noticed he had some time before given these significant names.

“Up, Diana! up, Satellite!” cried he, exciting them.  “You are going to show to the Selenite dogs how well-behaved the dogs of the earth can be!  That will do honour to the canine race.  If we ever come back here I will bring back a cross-breed of ‘moon-dogs’ that will become all the rage.”

“If there are any dogs in the moon,” said Barbicane.

“There are some,” affirmed Michel Ardan, “the same as there are horses, cows, asses, and hens.  I wager anything we shall find some hens.”

“I bet a hundred dollars we find none,” said Nicholl.

“Done, captain,” answered Ardan, shaking hands with Nicholl.  “But, by-the-bye, you have lost three bets with the president, for the funds necessary for the enterprise were provided, the casting succeeded, and lastly, the Columbiad was loaded without accident—­that makes six thousand dollars.”

“Yes,” answered Nicholl.  “Twenty-three minutes and six seconds to eleven.”

“I hear, captain.  Well, before another quarter of an hour is over you will have to make over another nine thousand dollars to the president, four thousand because the Columbiad will not burst, and five thousand because the bullet will rise higher than six miles into the air.”

“I have the dollars,” answered Nicholl, striking his coat pocket, “and I only want to pay.”

“Come, Nicholl, I see you are a man of order, what I never could be; but allow me to tell you that your series of bets cannot be very advantageous to you.”

“Why?” asked Barbicane.

“Because if you win the first the Columbiad will have burst, and the bullet with it, and Barbicane will not be there to pay you your dollars.”

“My wager is deposited in the Baltimore Bank,” answered Barbicane simply; “and in default of Nicholl it will go to his heirs.”

“What practical men you are!” cried Michel Ardan.  “I admire you as much as I do not understand you.”

“Eighteen minutes to eleven,” said Nicholl.

“Only five minutes more,” answered Barbicane.

“Yes, five short minutes!” replied Michel Ardan.  “And we are shut up in a bullet at the bottom of a cannon 900 feet long! and under this bullet there are 400,000 lbs. of gun-cotton, worth more than 1,600,000 lbs. of ordinary powder!  And friend Murchison, with his chronometer in hand and his eye fixed on the hand and his finger on the electric knob, is counting the seconds to hurl us into the planetary regions.”

“Enough, Michel, enough!” said Barbicane in a grave tone.  “Let us prepare ourselves.  A few seconds only separate us from a supreme moment.  Your hands, my friends.”

“Yes,” cried Michel Ardan, more moved than he wished to appear.