The contents of the dispatch, however, speedily became known; for the telegraphic officials possessed but little discretion, and Michel Ardan’s proposition ran at once throughout the several States of the Union. Barbicane, had, therefore, no further motives for keeping silence. Consequently, he called together such of his colleagues as were at the moment in Tampa Town, and without any expression of his own opinions simply read to them the laconic text itself. It was received with every possible variety of expressions of doubt, incredulity, and derision from every one, with the exception of J. T. Maston, who exclaimed, “It is a grand idea, however!” When Barbicane originally proposed to send a shot to the moon every one looked upon the enterprise as simple and practicable enough—a mere question of gunnery; but when a person, professing to be a reasonable being, offered to take passage within the projectile, the whole thing became a farce, or, in plainer language a humbug. One question, however, remained. Did such a being exist? This telegram flashed across the depths of the Atlantic, the designation of the vessel on board which he was to take his passage, the date assigned for his speedy arrival, all combined to impart a certain character of reality to the proposal. They must get some clearer notion of the matter. Scattered groups of inquirers at length condensed themselves into a compact crowd, which made straight for the residence of President Barbicane. That worthy individual was keeping quiet with the intention of watching events as they arose. But he had forgotten to take into account the public impatience; and it was with no pleasant countenance that he watched the population of Tampa Town gathering under his windows. The murmurs and vociferations below presently obliged him to appear. He came forward, therefore, and on silence being procured, a citizen put point-blank to him the following question: “Is the person mentioned in the telegram, under the name of Michel Ardan, on his way here? Yes or no.” “Gentlemen,” replied Barbicane, “I know no more than you do.” “We must know,” roared the impatient voices. “Time will show,” calmly replied the president. “Time has no business to keep a whole country in suspense,” replied the orator. “Have you altered the plans of the projectile according to the request of the telegram?” “Not yet, gentlemen; but you are right! we must have better information to go by. The telegraph must complete its information.” “To the telegraph!” roared the crowd. Barbicane descended; and heading the immense assemblage, led the way to the telegraph office. A few minutes later a telegram was dispatched to the secretary of the underwriters at Liverpool, requesting answers to the following queries: “About the ship Atlanta—when did she leave Europe? Had she on board a Frenchman named Michel Ardan?” Two hours afterward Barbicane received information too exact to leave room for the smallest remaining doubt.