The Atlanta's Passenger

If this astounding news, instead of flying through the electric wires, had simply arrived by post in the ordinary sealed envelope, Barbicane would not have hesitated a moment. He would have held his tongue about it, both as a measure of prudence, and in order not to have to reconsider his plans. This telegram might be a cover for some jest, especially as it came from a Frenchman. What human being would ever have conceived the idea of such a journey? and, if such a person really existed, he must be an idiot, whom one would shut up in a lunatic ward, rather than within the walls of the projectile.

If this astonishing news had arrived by post in an ordinary sealed envelope instead of by telegraph, Barbicane would not have hesitated. He would have kept quiet about it, both as a precaution and to avoid reconsidering his plans. The telegram might have been a joke, especially since it came from a Frenchman. What human being would ever have thought of making such a journey? And if such a person really existed, he must be an idiot. He belonged in a mental ward, not inside the projectile.

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!”

The contents of the dispatch soon became known, however, because the telegraph officials were not very discreet. Michel Ardan’s proposal quickly spread throughout the states of the Union. Barbicane therefore had no reason to remain silent. He called together the colleagues who were in Tampa Town at the time. Without expressing his own opinion, he simply read them the brief dispatch. Everyone responded with expressions of doubt, disbelief, or ridicule. The only exception was J. T. Maston, who exclaimed, “It is a grand idea, though!”

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.

When Barbicane first proposed sending a shot to the moon, everyone thought the project was simple and practical. It was merely a question of gunnery. But then someone claiming to be a reasonable person offered to travel inside the projectile. The whole thing became a farce, or, to put it plainly, a hoax.

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.”

One question remained, however. Did such a person exist? The telegram had flashed across the Atlantic. It named the ship he was to take and gave the date of his imminent arrival. All this made the proposal seem real. People needed a clearer idea of what was happening. At last, scattered groups of inquirers joined into a compact crowd and headed straight for President Barbicane’s residence. The worthy president was keeping quiet, intending to watch events unfold. But he had forgotten to account for the public’s impatience. He was not pleased to see the people of Tampa Town gathering beneath his windows. Their murmurs and shouts soon forced him to appear. He came forward, and once the crowd fell silent, a citizen asked him directly: “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.”

“Gentlemen,” Barbicane replied, “I don't know any more than you do.”

“We must know,” roared the impatient voices.

“We have to know,” the impatient voices roared.

“Time will show,” calmly replied the president.

“Time will tell,” the president replied calmly.

“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?”

“Time has no right to keep a whole country waiting,” the speaker replied. “Have you changed the projectile’s plans as the telegram requested?”

“Not yet, gentlemen; but you are right! we must have better information to go by. The telegraph must complete its information.”

“Not yet, gentlemen. But you are right! We need better information. The telegraph must provide the rest.”

“To the telegraph!” roared the crowd.

“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:

Barbicane came down and led the huge crowd to the telegraph office. A few minutes later, a telegram was sent to the secretary of the underwriters in Liverpool. It requested answers to the following questions:

“About the ship Atlanta—when did she leave Europe? Had she on board a Frenchman named Michel Ardan?”

“About the ship Atlanta, when did it leave Europe? Was a Frenchman named Michel Ardan on board?”

Two hours afterward Barbicane received information too exact to leave room for the smallest remaining doubt.

Two hours later, Barbicane received information so precise that it left no room for even the slightest doubt.

“The steamer Atlanta from Liverpool put to sea on the 2nd of October, bound for Tampa Town, having on board a Frenchman borne on the list of passengers by the name of Michel Ardan.”

“The steamer Atlanta left Liverpool for Tampa Town on October 2. Among its passengers was a Frenchman listed as Michel Ardan.”

That very evening he wrote to the house of Breadwill and Co., requesting them to suspend the casting of the projectile until the receipt of further orders. On the 10th of October, at nine A.M., the semaphores of the Bahama Canal signaled a thick smoke on the horizon. Two hours later a large steamer exchanged signals with them. the name of the Atlanta flew at once over Tampa Town. At four o’clock the English vessel entered the Bay of Espiritu Santo. At five it crossed the passage of Hillisborough Bay at full steam. At six she cast anchor at Port Tampa. The anchor had scarcely caught the sandy bottom when five hundred boats surrounded the Atlanta, and the steamer was taken by assault. Barbicane was the first to set foot on deck, and in a voice of which he vainly tried to conceal the emotion, called “Michel Ardan.”

That very evening, he wrote to Breadwill and Co., asking them to stop casting the projectile until further notice. On October 10, at nine A.M., the semaphore stations along the Bahama Canal signaled thick smoke on the horizon. Two hours later, a large steamer exchanged signals with them. News of the Atlanta’s arrival spread at once through Tampa Town. At four o’clock, the English vessel entered the Bay of Espiritu Santo. At five, it crossed the passage into Hillisborough Bay at full steam. At six, it anchored at Port Tampa. The anchor had barely caught in the sandy bottom when five hundred boats surrounded the Atlanta and people swarmed aboard. Barbicane was the first to step onto the deck. He called out “Michel Ardan,” trying in vain to hide the emotion in his voice.

“Here!” replied an individual perched on the poop.

“Here!” replied a person perched on the ship’s stern.

Barbicane, with arms crossed, looked fixedly at the passenger of the Atlanta.

Barbicane crossed his arms and stared at the passenger from the Atlanta.

He was a man of about forty-two years of age, of large build, but slightly round-shouldered. His massive head momentarily shook a shock of reddish hair, which resembled a lion’s mane. His face was short with a broad forehead, and furnished with a moustache as bristly as a cat’s, and little patches of yellowish whiskers upon full cheeks. Round, wildish eyes, slightly near-sighted, completed a physiognomy essentially feline. His nose was firmly shaped, his mouth particularly sweet in expression, high forehead, intelligent and furrowed with wrinkles like a newly-plowed field. The body was powerfully developed and firmly fixed upon long legs. Muscular arms, and a general air of decision gave him the appearance of a hardy, jolly, companion. He was dressed in a suit of ample dimensions, loose neckerchief, open shirtcollar, disclosing a robust neck; his cuffs were invariably unbuttoned, through which appeared a pair of red hands.

He was about forty-two, with a large build and slightly rounded shoulders. His massive head gave his thick reddish hair an occasional shake. The hair resembled a lion’s mane. His face was short, with a broad forehead and a mustache as bristly as a cat’s. Small patches of yellowish whiskers covered his full cheeks. His round, somewhat wild eyes were slightly nearsighted, completing his distinctly feline appearance. His nose was firmly shaped, and his mouth had a particularly sweet expression. His high forehead looked intelligent and was furrowed with wrinkles like a freshly plowed field. His body was powerfully built and supported by long legs. His muscular arms and generally decisive manner made him look like a hardy, cheerful companion. He wore a roomy suit, a loose neckerchief, and an open shirt collar that showed his strong neck. His cuffs were always unbuttoned, revealing a pair of red hands.

On the bridge of the steamer, in the midst of the crowd, he bustled to and fro, never still for a moment, “dragging his anchors,” as the sailors say, gesticulating, making free with everybody, biting his nails with nervous avidity. He was one of those originals which nature sometimes invents in the freak of a moment, and of which she then breaks the mould.

On the steamer’s bridge, he moved back and forth through the crowd, never still for a moment. He was “dragging his anchors,” as sailors say, waving his arms, acting familiarly with everyone, and eagerly biting his nails in nervous excitement. He was one of those characters nature sometimes creates on a whim, then breaks the mold.

Among other peculiarities, this curiosity gave himself out for a sublime ignoramus, “like Shakespeare,” and professed supreme contempt for all scientific men. Those “fellows,” as he called them, “are only fit to mark the points, while we play the game.” He was, in fact, a thorough Bohemian, adventurous, but not an adventurer; a hare-brained fellow, a kind of Icarus, only possessing relays of wings. For the rest, he was ever in scrapes, ending invariably by falling on his feet, like those little figures which they sell for children’s toys. In a few words, his motto was “I have my opinions,” and the love of the impossible constituted his ruling passion.

Among his other peculiarities, this curious man called himself a sublime ignoramus, “like Shakespeare.” He claimed to have the utmost contempt for all scientists. As he put it, those “fellows” “are only fit to keep score, while we play the game.” He was a true Bohemian, adventurous but not an adventurer. He was a reckless fellow, a kind of Icarus, except that he had spare sets of wings. He was always getting into trouble, but invariably landed on his feet. He was like those little toy figures sold for children. In short, his motto was “I have my opinions,” and his ruling passion was a love of the impossible.

Such was the passenger of the Atlanta, always excitable, as if boiling under the action of some internal fire by the character of his physical organization. If ever two individuals offered a striking contrast to each other, these were certainly Michel Ardan and the Yankee Barbicane; both, moreover, being equally enterprising and daring, each in his own way.

Such was the passenger aboard the Atlanta, always excitable, as if his very nature kept him boiling with an inner fire. If ever two people were striking opposites, they were Michel Ardan and the Yankee Barbicane. Yet both were equally enterprising and daring, each in his own way.

The scrutiny which the president of the Gun Club had instituted regarding this new rival was quickly interrupted by the shouts and hurrahs of the crowd. The cries became at last so uproarious, and the popular enthusiasm assumed so personal a form, that Michel Ardan, after having shaken hands some thousands of times, at the imminent risk of leaving his fingers behind him, was fain at last to make a bolt for his cabin.

The president of the Gun Club had begun studying this new rival, but the crowd’s shouts and cheers soon interrupted him. The cries grew so loud and the crowd’s enthusiasm became so personal that Michel Ardan finally fled to his cabin. He had shaken hands thousands of times and was in danger of leaving his fingers behind.

Barbicane followed him without uttering a word.

Barbicane followed him without saying a word.

“You are Barbicane, I suppose?” said Michel Ardan, in a tone of voice in which he would have addressed a friend of twenty years’ standing.

“You are Barbicane, I suppose?” said Michel Ardan, speaking as if to a friend he had known for twenty years.

“Yes,” replied the president of the Gun Club.

“Yes,” said the president of the Gun Club.

“All right! how d’ye do, Barbicane? how are you getting on—pretty well? that’s right.”

“All right! How do you do, Barbicane? How are you getting on? Pretty well? That’s good.”

“So,” said Barbicane without further preliminary, “you are quite determined to go.”

“So,” said Barbicane without further introduction, “you are determined to go.”

“Quite decided.”

“Completely decided.”

“Nothing will stop you?”

“Nothing will stop you?”

“Nothing. Have you modified your projectile according to my telegram.”

“Nothing. Have you modified your projectile as I requested in my telegram?”

“I waited for your arrival. But,” asked Barbicane again, “have you carefully reflected?”

“I waited for you to arrive. But,” Barbicane asked again, “have you thought it over carefully?”

“Reflected? have I any time to spare? I find an opportunity of making a tour in the moon, and I mean to profit by it. There is the whole gist of the matter.”

“Thought it over? Do I have any time to spare? I have a chance to take a trip to the moon, and I intend to take it. That's the whole point.”

Barbicane looked hard at this man who spoke so lightly of his project with such complete absence of anxiety. “But, at least,” said he, “you have some plans, some means of carrying your project into execution?”

Barbicane stared at the man, who spoke so casually about his project and showed no anxiety at all. “But surely,” he said, “you have some plans, some way to carry out your project?”

“Excellent, my dear Barbicane; only permit me to offer one remark: My wish is to tell my story once for all, to everybody, and then have done with it; then there will be no need for recapitulation. So, if you have no objection, assemble your friends, colleagues, the whole town, all Florida, all America if you like, and to-morrow I shall be ready to explain my plans and answer any objections whatever that may be advanced. You may rest assured I shall wait without stirring. Will that suit you?”

“Excellent, my dear Barbicane. I have just one thing to say. I want to tell my story to everyone once and be done with it. Then I won’t need to repeat it. So, if you have no objection, gather your friends, colleagues, the whole town, all Florida, all America if you like. Tomorrow I’ll be ready to explain my plans and answer any objections anyone raises. You can be sure I’ll stay right here and wait. Will that suit you?”

“All right,” replied Barbicane.

“All right,” said Barbicane.

So saying, the president left the cabin and informed the crowd of the proposal of Michel Ardan. His words were received with clappings of hands and shouts of joy. They had removed all difficulties. To-morrow every one would contemplate at his ease this European hero. However, some of the spectators, more infatuated than the rest, would not leave the deck of the Atlanta. They passed the night on board. Among others J. T. Maston got his hook fixed in the combing of the poop, and it pretty nearly required the capstan to get it out again.

With that, the president left the cabin and told the crowd about Michel Ardan's proposal. The crowd responded with applause and shouts of joy. All the difficulties had been resolved. Tomorrow, everyone could see this European hero at their leisure. But some spectators, more infatuated than the rest, refused to leave the deck of the Atlanta. They spent the night on board. Among them was J. T. Maston, who got his hook caught in the raised edge of the poop deck. It nearly took the ship's capstan to pull it free.

“He is a hero! a hero!” he cried, a theme of which he was never tired of ringing the changes; “and we are only like weak, silly women, compared with this European!”

“He is a hero! A hero!” he cried, never tiring of repeating the idea in different ways. “And compared with this European, we are like weak, silly women!”

As to the president, after having suggested to the visitors it was time to retire, he re-entered the passenger’s cabin, and remained there till the bell of the steamer made it midnight.

The president suggested that it was time for the visitors to go to bed. He then returned to the passenger cabin and stayed there until the steamer’s bell struck midnight.

But then the two rivals in popularity shook hands heartily and parted on terms of intimate friendship.

But then the two rivals for popularity shook hands warmly and parted as close friends.