Chapter 8 - Page 2

Not a bit of it.
On the contrary, he was rather proud of having done something
startling, to break the monotony of the journey; and to put a little
life, as he said, into old Barbican and the grim Captain, so as to get a
little fun out of such grave philosophers.

After laughing heartily at the comical figure cut by his two friends
capering like crazy students at the _Closerie des Lilas_, he went on
moralizing on the incident:

"For my part, I'm not a bit sorry for having partaken of this fuddling
gas. It gives me an idea, dear boys. Would it not be worth some
enterprising fellow's while to establish a sanatorium provided with
oxygen chambers, where people of a debilitated state of health could
enjoy a few hours of intensely active existence! There's money in it, as
you Americans say. Just suppose balls or parties given in halls where
the air would be provided with an extra supply of this enrapturing gas!
Or, theatres where the atmosphere would be maintained in a highly
oxygenated condition. What passion, what fire in the actors! What
enthusiasm in the spectators! And, carrying the idea a little further,
if, instead of an assembly or an audience, we should oxygenize towns,
cities, a whole country--what activity would be infused into the whole
people! What new life would electrify a stagnant community! Out of an
old used-up nation we could perhaps make a bran-new one, and, for my
part, I know more than one state in old Europe where this oxygen
experiment might be attended with a decided advantage, or where, at all
events, it could do no harm!"

The Frenchman spoke so glibly and gesticulated so earnestly that
M'Nicholl once more gravely examined the stop-cock; but Barbican damped
his enthusiasm by a single observation.

"Friend Michael," said he, "your new and interesting idea we shall
discuss at a more favorable opportunity. At present we want to know
where all these cocks and hens have come from."

"These cocks and hens?"

"Yes."

Ardan threw a glance of comical bewilderment on half a dozen or so of
splendid barn-yard fowls that were now beginning to recover from the
effects of the oxygen. For an instant he could not utter a word; then,
shrugging his shoulders, he muttered in a low voice:

"Catastrophe prematurely exploded!"

"What are you going to do with these chickens?" persisted Barbican.

"Acclimatize them in the Moon, by Jove! what else?" was the ready reply.

"Why conceal them then?"

"A hoax, a poor hoax, dear President, which proves a miserable failure!
I intended to let them loose on the Lunar Continent at the first
favorable opportunity. I