The adventurers sat in the library of Hilton Manor. Mervyn alone was absent, he being in London, hard at work upon his book.
“What do you mean, Silas?” Garth asked.
“Just what I say,” retorted the American; “but read it out, William, so’s our pards can grasp the elevatin’ language.”
“Very well,” returned the baronet, smiling, and forthwith commenced to read the following, which, topped by two staring head-lines, occupied two columns of the “Gazette’s” centre page.
“‘A scientist’s delusion!’” Seymour began. “‘An up-to-date fairy story! Truly we are tempted to exclaim with Joseph’s brethren, ‘Behold, that dreamer cometh,’ and we do not doubt that those of our readers who observed the extraordinary effusion in our contemporary of yesterday were alike tempted. Never before has such a wildly improbable story found its way into print. Jules Verne himself could scarcely have conceived anything more fantastic; yet here we have half a dozen columns of closely-printed matter, offered to the confiding public in the guise of sober truth. We marvel that the writer of the article should have dared append his signature; but, after reading this masterpiece of modern imagination, we were in no way surprised to learn that it emanated from the pen of our old rival, Professor James Mervyn.’”
“Take your breath, old man,” Silas interrupted, cheerfully, “you’ll need it all ’fore you get through.”
“Dry up, Silas,” retorted the engineer, “you’re spoiling the flow of language. I should think the beggar must have swallowed a dictionary.”
“Perhaps he gets paid by the yard for what he turns out,” Garth suggested, with a grin; “but wade in, Seymour; we’re eager for the next instalment.”
“You shall have it at once,” rejoined the baronet, and resumed his reading.
“‘We have only space here to touch upon one or two of the more flagrant of the series of glaring falsehoods—we can use no other word—which constitute the whole outrageous story. Whether the interior of the globe is a huge cavern or no, we are in no position to state; but hitherto we have been content to believe in the popular theory of internal fire, and shall continue to do so until we have convincing proof to the contrary. This, however, we could have granted, had it not been for the hopelessly impossible stories which follow. The intellect which could conceive such creatures as the wolf-men and their hypnotist priest, should find its sphere of labour in other realms than those of science. The learned professor should make his mark as a writer of fairy tales. Before his vampires the flying dragons of the ancients fade into insignificance, while his megalosaurus—a creature extinct for eras—beats all the fabled monsters of classical times. But when we read of the giant spider—Rahee the terrible, as he names it—our disgust knows no bounds. That he should have supposed for an instant that he could foist so ridiculous a conception upon a circle of intelligent readers, destroys our last atom of compunction at the drastic course we felt called upon to take.