At this moment Belfast’s servant appeared on the platform (it was ten at night) and gave him a dispatch. It was the commander of the Susquehanna’s telegram.
Belfast tore the envelope and read, and uttered a cry.
“What!” said J. T. Maston.
“The projectile!”
“Well!”
“Has fallen to the earth!”
Another cry, this time a perfect howl, answered him. He turned toward J. T. Maston. The unfortunate man, imprudently leaning over the metal tube, had disappeared in the immense telescope. A fall of two hundred and eighty feet! Belfast, dismayed, rushed to the orifice of the reflector.
He breathed. J. T. Maston, caught by his metal hook, was holding on by one of the rings which bound the telescope together, uttering fearful cries.
Belfast called. Help was brought, tackle was let down, and they hoisted up, not without some trouble, the imprudent secretary of the Gun Club.
He reappeared at the upper orifice without hurt.