“Go along, old pole-shifter!”
“Hallo, old clock-jobber!”
“How’s the figuring tinker?”
And a mob gathered and began to hustle him, and he had to seek refuge in the New Park mansion, where Mrs. Scorbitt did her best to console him. It was in vain.
J. T. Maston—after the example of Niobe—would not be consoled. His gun had produced no more effect on the terrestrial spheroid than an ordinary petard.
A fortnight went by, and the world had already forgotten the North Polar Practical Association.
A fortnight, and no news of Barbicane or Captain Nicholl! Had they perished in the counter-shock of the explosion, victims to the ravages produced among the Wamasai? Had they paid with their lives for the biggest mystification of modern times?
No.
At the explosion Barbicane and Nicholl had been thrown down; so had the Sultan, and several thousand natives; but they had all got up again safe and sound.
“Is it a success?” asked Bali-Bali rubbing his shoulders.