"Yes, friend Michael," observed Barbican; "but there is a slight and
unfortunately a fatal defect in your project. The Earth, by its
rotation, would have wrapped our wire around herself, like thread around
a spool, and dragged us back almost with the speed of lightning!"
"By the Nine gods of Porsena!" cried Ardan, "something is wrong with my
head to-day! My brain is out of joint, and I am making as nice a mess of
things as my friend Marston was ever capable of! By the bye--talking of
Marston--if we never return to the Earth, what is to prevent him from
following us to the Moon?"
"Nothing!" replied Barbican; "he is a faithful friend and a reliable
comrade. Besides, what is easier? Is not the Columbiad still at Stony
Hill? Cannot gun-cotton be readily manufactured on any occasion? Will
not the Moon again pass through the zenith of Florida? Eighteen years
from now, will she not occupy exactly the same spot that she does
to-day?"
"Certainly!" cried Ardan, with increasing enthusiasm, "Marston will
come! and Elphinstone of the torpedo! and the gallant Bloomsbury, and
Billsby the brave, and all our friends of the Baltimore Gun Club! And we
shall receive them with all the honors! And then we shall establish
projectile trains between the Earth and the Moon! Hurrah for J.
Pages:
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138