Answers of this kind either led directly to
a fight, or the _Belfasters_ moved away thoroughly disgusted with the
ignorance of their opponents, who could not see a chain of reasoning as
bright as the noonday sun.
Things were in this feverish state on the evening of the 14th, when, all
at once, Bloomsbury's dispatch arrived in Baltimore. I need not say that
it dropped like a spark in a keg of gun powder. The first question all
asked was: Is it genuine or bogus? real or got up by the stockbrokers?
But a few flashes backwards and forwards over the wires soon settled
that point. The stunning effects of the new blow were hardly over when
the _Barbicanites_ began to perceive that the wonderful intelligence was
decidedly in their favor. Was it not a distinct contradiction of the
whole story told by their opponents? If Barbican and his friends were
lying at the bottom of the Pacific, they were certainly not
circumgyrating around the Moon. If it was the Projectile that had broken
off the bowsprit of the _Susquehanna_, it could not certainly be the
Projectile that Belfast had seen only the day previous doing the duty
of a satellite. Did not the truth of one incident render the other an
absolute impossibility? If Bloomsbury was right, was not Belfast an ass?
Hurrah!
The new revelation did not improve poor Barbican's fate a bit--no matter
for that! Did not the _party_ gain by it? What would the _Belfasters_
say now? Would not they hold down their heads in confusion and disgrace?
The _Belfasters_, with a versatility highly creditable to human nature,
did nothing of the kind.
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