"Speak, can't you?"
"It is, imbeciles," shouted the terrible secretary, "it is the bullet only weighs 19,250 lbs!"
"Well?"
"And it displaces 28 tons, or 56,000 lbs., consequently it floats!"
Ah! how that worthy man did underline the verb "to float!" And it was the truth! All, yes! all these savants had forgotten this fundamental law, that in consequence of its specific lightness the projectile, after having been dragged by its fall to the greatest depths of the ocean, had naturally returned to the surface; and now it was floating tranquilly whichever way the wind carried them.
The boats had been lowered. J.T. Maston and his friends rushed into them. The excitement was at its highest point. All hearts palpitated whilst the boats rowed towards the projectile. What did it contain—the living or the dead? The living. Yes! unless death had struck down Barbicane and his companions since they had hoisted the flag!
Profound silence reigned in the boats. All hearts stopped beating. Eyes no longer performed their office. One of the port-lights of the projectile was opened. Some pieces of glass remaining in the frame proved that it had been broken. This port-light was situated actually five feet above water.
A boat drew alongside—that of J.T. Maston. He rushed to the broken window.
At that moment the joyful and clear voice of Michel Ardan was heard exclaiming in the accents of victory—"Double blank, Barbicane, double blank!"
Barbicane, Michel Ardan, and Nicholl were playing at dominoes.