"It is understood, captain. Well, before another quarter of an hour you will have to count 9000 dollars to the president; 4000 because the Columbiad will not burst, and 5000 because the projectile will rise more than six miles in the air." "I have the dollars," replied Nicholl, slapping the pocket of his coat. "I only ask to be allowed to pay." "Come, Nicholl, I see that you are a man of method, which I could never be; but indeed you have made a series of bets of very little advantage to yourself, allow me to tell you." "And why?" asked Nicholl. "Because, if you gain the first, the Columbiad will have burst, and the projectile with it; and Barbicane will no longer be there to reimburse your dollars." "My stake is deposited at the bank in Baltimore," replied Barbicane simply; "and if Nicholl is not there, it will go to his heirs." "Ah, you practical men!" exclaimed Michel Ardan; "I admire you the more for not being able to understand you." "Forty-two minutes past ten!" said Nicholl. "Only five minutes more!" answered Barbicane. "Yes, five little minutes!" replied Michel Ardan; "and we are enclosed in a projectile, at the bottom of a gun 900 feet long! And under this projectile are rammed 400,000 lbs. of gun-cotton, which is equal to 1,600,000 lbs. of ordinary powder! And friend Murchison, with his chronometer in hand, his eye fixed on the needle, his finger on the electric apparatus, is counting the seconds preparatory to launching us into interplanetary space." "Enough, Michel, enough!" said Barbicane, in a serious voice; "let us prepare. A few instants alone separate us from an eventful moment. One clasp of the hand, my friends." "Yes," exclaimed Michel Ardan, more moved than he wished to appear; and the three bold companions were united in a last embrace. "God preserve us!" said the religious Barbicane. Michel Ardan and Nicholl stretched themselves on the couches placed in the centre of the disc. "Forty seven minutes past ten!" murmured the captain. "Twenty seconds more!" Barbicane quickly put out the gas and lay down by his companions, and the profound silence was only broken by the ticking of the chronometer marking the seconds. Suddenly a dreadful shock was felt, and the projectile, under the force of six billions of litres of gas, developed by the combustion of the pyroxyle, mounted into space. Illustration: THE COURAGEOUS FRENCHMAN. CHAPTER II. THE FIRST HALF-HOUR.