Now and then reminiscences of our lower world would flit across their
brains. Visions of the famous Gun Club rose up before them the oftenest,
with their dear friend Marston always the central figure. What was his
bustling, honest, good-natured, impetuous heart at now? Most probably he
was standing bravely at his post on the Rocky Mountains, his eye glued
to the great Telescope, his whole soul peering through its tube. Had he
seen the Projectile before it vanished behind the Moon's north pole?
Could he have caught a glimpse of it at its reappearance? If so, could
he have concluded it to be the satellite of a satellite! Could Belfast
have announced to the world such a startling piece of intelligence? Was
that all the Earth was ever to know of their great enterprise? What were
the speculations of the Scientific World upon the subject? etc., etc.
In listless questions and desultory conversation of this kind the day
slowly wore away, without the occurrence of any incident whatever to
relieve its weary monotony. Midnight arrived, December the seventh was
dead. As Ardan said: "_Le Sept Decembre est mort; vive le Huit!_" In one
hour more, the neutral point would be reached.
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