After Captain Blomsberry's departure, Lieutenant Bronsfield and a few officers were together on the poop. As the moon appeared their thoughts turned towards that orb which the eyes of a whole hemisphere were then contemplating. The best marine glasses could not have discovered the projectile wandering round the demi-globe, and yet they were all pointed at the shining disc which millions of eyes were looking at in the same moment.
"They started ten days ago," then said Lieutenant Bronsfield. "What can have become of them?"
"They have arrived, sir," exclaimed a young midshipman, "and they are doing what all travellers do in a new country, they are looking about them."
"I am certain of it as you say so, my young friend," answered Lieutenant
Bronsfield, smiling.
"Still," said another officer, "their arrival cannot be doubted. The projectile must have reached the moon at the moment she was full, at midnight on the 5th. We are now at the 11th of December; that makes six days. Now in six times twenty-four hours, with no darkness, they have had time to get comfortably settled. It seems to me that I see our brave countrymen encamped at the bottom of a valley, on the borders of a Selenite stream, near the projectile, half buried by its fall, amidst volcanic remains, Captain Nicholl beginning his levelling operations, President Barbicane putting his travelling notes in order, Michel Ardan performing the lunar solitudes with his Londrès cigar—"
"Oh, it must be so; it is so!" exclaimed the young midshipman, enthusiastic at the ideal description of his superior.
"I should like to believe it," answered Lieutenant Bronsfield, who was seldom carried away. "Unfortunately direct news from the lunar world will always be wanting."
"Excuse me, sir," said the midshipman, "but cannot President Barbicane write?"
A roar of laughter greeted this answer.
"Not letters," answered the young man quickly. "The post-office has nothing to do with that."