IT WAS AN ENORMOUS DISC.
"I have lost," said Nicholl.
"I congratulate you," replied Ardan.
"Here are the nine thousand dollars," said the captain, drawing a roll of paper dollars from his pocket.
"Will you have a receipt for it?" asked Barbicane, taking the sum.
"If you do not mind," answered Nicholl; "it is more business-like."
And coolly and seriously, as if he had been at his strong-box, the president drew forth his note-book, tore out a blank leaf, wrote a proper receipt in pencil, dated and signed it with the usual flourish,* and gave it to the captain, who carefully placed it in his pocketbook. Michel Ardan, taking off his hat, bowed to his two companions without speaking. So much formality under such circumstances left him speechless. He had never before seen anything so "American."
* This is a purely French habit.
This affair settled, Barbicane and Nicholl had returned to the window, and were watching the constellations. The stars looked like bright points on the black sky. But from that side they could not see the orb of night, which, travelling from east to west, would rise by degrees towards the zenith. Its absence drew the following remark from Ardan.
"And the moon; will she perchance fail at our rendezvous?"