The Philosopher appeared not to notice. "Next character, please," he said, pulling out a long stop, and placing his square leg on the wicket which gave admission to his laboratory, while he waited for the entrance of the Third Man. There came a murmur like the buzz of a ton of blasting powder, in a state of excitement. A choir of angels seemed to whisper "Beefsteak and Pale Ale," as Lord JOHN BULLPUP dashed, without a trace of emotion, into the room, and sneezed three times without stopping to wipe his boots on the mat. "One more," said the Philosopher. He hurled himself, feet first, at the ceiling, knocked his head against the floor, and called down the tube. "_J'y suis!_" came the answer, and the typical, light-hearted Frenchman, M. le Docteur REVERSI, with his thousand thunders, and his blue lower chest, tripped jauntily up to the other three. "And now," remarked the Philosopher, "we have got the lot complete. The story can start. Hurry up! Hark forrard! _En avant!_" CHAPTER II. "Lend me your ears," said the Philosopher. They lent them, but without interest. Yet they were all keen business men. "Attention, my friends!" he continued, somewhat annoyed. "You know why I have summoned you. We have to make another journey together. The moon, the sea, the earth--we have voyaged and journeyed to them, and they are exhausted. It remains to visit the Sun, and to perform the journey in an iceberg. Do you see? Colonel GOBANG will supply the craft, Lord JOHN BULLPUP the stupid courage, and you, M. le Docteur," he added, admiringly, "will of course take the cake." He paused, and waited for Lord JOHN's reply. It came prompt, and in the expected words. "Is it a plum-pudding cake?" said Lord JOHN. The rest laughed heartily. They loved their jokes, small and old. "Are we agreed?" "We are." "Have you anything to ask?" "Nothing. When do we start?" "We are on our way." "Shall we not melt as we approach?" "Certainly not." "How so?" "We shall have a constant frost." "Are you sure?" "Certain. I have taken in a supply of _Matinées_, and a stock of Five-act Tragedies." "Good. But how to raise the wind?" Scarcely, had the question been asked, when a frightful explosion shook the iceberg to its foundations. The Doctor rushed to the gasbag. It was empty. He frowned. Lord JOHN was smoking his pipe; the Colonel was turning over the pages of an old Algebra. He muttered to himself, "That ought to figure it out. If _x_ = the amount of non-compressible fluid consumed by a given labourer in _y_ days, find, by the substitution of poached eggs for kippered herrings, how many tea-cups it will take to make a transpontine hurricane. Yes," he went on, "that's it. Yes, Sirree." And at these words the vast mass of congealed water rose majestically out of the ocean, and floated off into the nebular hypothesis. But the Philosopher had vanished. CHAPTER III.