Barbicane & Co.! The president of the Gun Club! What was the Gun Club going to do with the North Pole? We shall see.  
Is it necessary to formally introduce Impey Barbicane, the president of the Gun Club, and Captain Nicholl, and J. T. Maston, and Tom Hunter with the wooden legs, and the brisk Bilsby, and Colonel Bloomsberry and their colleagues? No! Although twenty years had elapsed since the attention of the world was concentrated on these remarkable¹ personages, they had remained much as they were, just as incomplete corporeally², and just as obstreperous³, just as daring, just as wrapped up in themselves as when they had embarked⁴ in their extraordinary adventure. Time had made no impression on the Gun Club; it respected them as people respect the obsolete⁵ cannon⁶ that are found in the museums of old arsenals⁷.
 
If the Gun Club comprised 1833 members at its foundation—that is persons and not limbs, for a number of these were missing—if 30,575 correspondents were proud of their connection with the club, the number had in no way decreased. On the contrary, thanks to the unprecedented⁸ attempt they had made to open communication with the Moon, as related in the Moon Voyage, its celebrity⁹ had increased enormously.
 
It will be remembered that a few years after the War of Secession certain members of the Gun Club, tired of doing nothing, had proposed to send a projectile¹⁰ to the Moon by means of a monster Columbiad. A gun nine hundred feet 35long had been solemnly cast at Tampa Town, in the Floridan peninsula, and loaded with 400,000 lbs. of fulminating cotton. Shot out by this gun, a cylindro-conical shell of aluminium¹¹ had been sent flying among the stars of the night under a pressure of six million millions of litres of gas. Owing to a deviation¹² of the trajectory¹³, the projectile had gone round the Moon and fallen back to the earth, dropping into the Pacific Ocean in lat. 27° 7′ N., long. 141° 37′ west; when the frigate¹⁴ Susquehanna had secured it, to the great satisfaction of its passengers.
 
Of its passengers, two members of the Gun Club, the president, Impey Barbicane, and Captain Nicholl, with a hare-brained Frenchman, had taken passage in the projectile and had all returned from the voyage safe and sound. But if the two Americans were then present ready to risk their lives in some new adventure, it was not so with Michel Ardan. He had returned to Europe, and made a fortune, and was now planting cabbages in his retirement¹⁵, if the best-informed reporters were to be believed.
 
Barbicane and Nicholl had also retired¹⁶, comparatively speaking, but they had retired only to dream of some new enterprise of a similar character. They were in no want of money. From their last undertaking¹⁷ there remained nearly two hundred thousand dollars out of the five millions and a half yielded by the public subscriptions¹⁸ of the old and new worlds; and by exhibiting themselves in their aluminium projectile throughout the United States they had realized enough wealth and glory to satisfy the most exacting¹⁹ of human ambitions. They would have been content if idleness had not been wearisome to them; and it was probably in order to find something to do that they had now bought the Arctic regions.
 
36But it should not be forgotten that if they had paid for their purchase eight hundred thousand dollars and more, it was because Evangelina Scorbitt had advanced the balance they required.
 
Although Barbicane and Nicholl enjoyed incomparable celebrity, there was one who shared it with them. This was J. T. Maston, the impetuous secretary of the Gun Club. Was it not this able mathematician²⁰ who had made the calculations which had enabled the great experiment to be made? If he had not accompanied his two colleagues on their extraordinary voyage, it was not from fear; certainly not! But the worthy²¹ gunner wanted a right arm, and had a gutta-percha cranium, owing to one of those accidents so common in warfare²²; and if he had shown himself to the Selenites it might have given them an erroneous idea of the inhabitants of the Earth, of which the Moon after all is but the humble²³ satellite.
 
To his profound regret J. T. Maston had had to resign himself to staying at home. But he was not idle. After the construction of the immense telescope on the summit of Long’s Peak, one of the highest of the Rocky Mountains, he had transported himself there, and from the moment he found the projectile describing its majestic²⁴ trajectory in the sky he never left his post of observation. At the eye-piece of the huge instrument he devoted²⁵ himself to the task of following his friends as they journeyed in their strange carriage through space.
 
It might be thought that the bold voyagers were for ever lost to earth. The projectile, drawn²⁶ into a new orbit by the Moon, might gravitate eternally round the Queen of the Night as a sort of sub-satellite. But no! A deviation, which by many was called providential, had modified 37the projectile’s direction, and, after making the circle of the Moon, brought it back from that spheroid at a speed of 172,800 miles an hour at the moment it plunged²⁷ into the ocean.
 
Luckily the liquid mass of the Pacific had broken the fall, which had been perceived by the U.S. frigate Susquehanna. As soon as the news had reached J. T. Maston, he had set out in all haste from the observatory²⁹ at Long’s Peak to the rescue of his friends. Soundings were taken in the vicinity of where the shell had been seen to fall, and the devoted Maston had not hesitated to go down in diver’s dress to find his friends. But such trouble was unnecessary. The projectile being of aluminium, displacing an amount of water greater than its own weight, had returned to the surface of the Pacific after a magnificent plunge²⁸. And President Barbicane, Captain Nicholl, and Michel Ardan were found in their floating prison playing dominoes.
 
The part that Maston took in these extraordinary proceedings³⁰ had brought him prominently to the front. He was not handsome, with his artificial cranium and his mechanical arm with its hook for a hand. He was not young, for fifty-eight years had chimed and struck at the date of our story’s beginning. But the originality³¹ of his character, the vivacity³² of his intelligence, the fire in his eye, the impetuosity with which he had attacked everything, had made him the beau-ideal of a man in the eyes of Evangelina Scorbitt. His brain, carefully protected beneath its gutta-percha roof was intact, and justly bore the reputation of being one of the most remarkable of the day.
 
Mrs. Scorbitt—though the least calculation gave her a headache—had a taste for mathematicians³³ if she had 38not one for mathematics. She looked upon them as upon beings of a peculiar³⁴ and superior species. Heads where x’s knocked against x’s like nuts in a bag, brains which rejoiced in algebraic formulæ, hands which threw about triple integrals as an equilibrist plays with glasses and bottles, intelligences which understood this sort of thing:
 
∫∫∫Φ(xyz) dx dy dz
—these were the wise men who appeared worthy of all the admiration³⁵ of a woman, attracted to them proportionally to their mass and in inverse³⁶ ratio to the square of their distances. And J. T. Maston was bulky enough to exercise on her an irresistible³⁷ attraction, and as to the distance between them it would be simply zero, if she succeeded in her plans.
 
It must be confessed that this gave some anxiety to the secretary of the Gun Club, who had never sought happiness in such close approximations. Besides, Evangelina Scorbitt was no longer in her first youth; but she was not a bad sort of person by any means, and she would have wanted for nothing could she only see the day when she was introduced to the drawing-rooms of Baltimore as Mrs. J. T. Maston.
 
The widow’s fortune was considerable. Not that she was as rich as Gould, Mackay, Vanderbilt, or Gordon Bennett, whose fortunes exceed millions, and who could give alms to a Rothschild. Not that she possessed³⁸ the millions of Mrs. Moses Carper, Mrs. Stewart, or Mrs. Crocker; nor was she as rich as Mrs. Hammersley, Mrs. Helby Green, Mrs. Maffitt, Mrs. Marshall, Mrs. Para Stevens, Mrs. Mintbury, and a few others. But she was the possessor of four good millions of dollars, which had come to her 39from John P. Scorbitt, who had made a fortune by trade in fashionable sundries and salt pork. And this fortune the generous widow would have been happy to employ for the advantage of J. T. Maston, to whom she would bring a treasure of tenderness yet more inexhaustible.
 
At Maston’s request, she had cheerfully consented to put several hundreds of thousands of dollars at the disposal of the North Polar Practical Association, without even knowing what it was all about. With J. T. Maston concerned in it she felt assured that the work could not but be grandiose³⁹, sublime⁴⁰, super-excellent. The past of the Gun Club’s secretary was voucher⁴¹ enough for the future.
 
It may be guessed, therefore, if she lost confidence when the auctioneer’s hammer knocked down the North Pole to Barbicane & Co. While J. T. Maston formed part of the “Co.” could she do otherwise than applaud?
 
And thus it happened that Evangelina Scorbitt found herself chief proprietor⁴² of the Arctic regions within the eighty-fourth parallel. But what would she do with them? Or rather, how was the company going to get any benefit out of their inaccessible⁴³ domain⁴⁴?
 
That was the question! And if in a pecuniary⁴⁵ sense it had much interest for Mrs. Scorbitt, from a curiosity point of view it had quite as much interest for the world at large.
 
The trusting widow had asked a few questions of Maston before she advanced the funds. But Maston invariably maintained the closest reserve. Mrs. Scorbitt, he remarked, would know soon enough, but not before the hour had come, for she would be astonished at the object of the new association.
 
Doubtless he was thinking of some undertaking which 40to quote Jean Jacques, “never had an example, and never will have imitators,” of something destined⁴⁶ to leave far behind the attempt made by the Gun Club to open up communication with the Moon.
 
When Evangelina grew somewhat pressing in her inquiries⁴⁷, J. T. Maston had placed his hook on his half-closed lips, and remarked soothingly,—
 
“Have confidence, Mrs. Scorbitt; have confidence!”
 
And if Mrs. Scorbitt had confidence before the sale, what immense joy she must have experienced at the result!
 
Still she could not help asking the eminent⁴⁸ mathematician, what he was going to do next. And though she smiled on him bewitchingly, the eminent mathematician only replied, as he cordially shook her hand,—
 
“You will know very soon!”
 
That shake of the hand immediately calmed the impatience⁴⁹ of Mrs. Scorbitt. And a few days later there was another shake, for the old and new worlds were considerably⁵⁰ shaken—to say nothing of the shake that was coming—when they learnt the project for which the North Polar Practical Association appealed to the public for subscriptions.
 
The company announced that it had “acquired” the territory for the purpose of working—“the Coal Fields at the North Pole”!