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been able to knock the life out of one little Frenchman can't have
killed two Americans! They're all right! But first and foremost, let us
enlighten the situation!"
So saying, he contrived without much difficulty to get on his feet.
Balancing himself then for a moment, he began groping about for the gas.
But he stopped suddenly.
"Hold on a minute!" he cried; "before lighting this match, let us see if
the gas has been escaping. Setting fire to a mixture of air and hydrogen
would make a pretty how-do-you-do! Such an explosion would infallibly
burst the Projectile, which so far seems all right, though I'm blest if
I can tell whether we're moving or not."
He began sniffing and smelling to discover if possible the odor of
escaped gas. He could not detect the slightest sign of anything of the
kind. This gave him great courage. He knew of course that his senses
were not yet in good order, still he thought he might trust them so far
as to be certain that the gas had not escaped and that consequently all
the other receptacles were uninjured.
At the touch of the match, the gas burst into light and burned with a
steady flame. Ardan immediately bent anxiously over the prostrate bodies
of his friends. They lay on each other like inert masses, M'Nicholl
stretched across Barbican.
Ardan first lifted up the Captain, laid him on the sofa, opened his
clenched hands, rubbed them, and slapped the palms vigorously. Then he
went all over the body carefully, kneading it, rubbing it, and gently
patting it. In such intelligent efforts to restore suspended
circulation, he seemed perfectly at home, and after a few minutes his
patience was rewarded by seeing the Captain's pallid face gradually
recover its natural color, and by feeling his heart gradually beat with
a firm pulsation.
At last M'Nicholl opened his eyes, stared at Ardan for an instant,
pressed his hand, looked around searchingly and anxiously, and at last
whispered in a faint voice:
"How's Barbican?"
"Barbican is all right, Captain," answered Ardan quietly, but still
speaking French. "I'll attend to him in a jiffy. He had to wait for his
turn. I began with you because you were the top man. We'll see in a
minute what we can do for dear old Barby (_ce cher Barbican_)!"
In less than thirty seconds more, the Captain not only was able to sit
up himself, but he even insisted on helping Ardan to lift Barbican,
and deposit him gently on the sofa.
[Illustration: HELPED ARDAN TO LIFT BARBICAN.]
The poor President had evidently suffered more from the concussion than
either of his companions. As they took off his coat they were at first
terribly shocked at the sight of a great patch of blood staining his
shirt bosom, but they were inexpressibly relieved at finding that it
proceeded from a slight contusion of the shoulder, little more than skin
deep.
Every approved operation that Ardan had performed for the Captain, both
now repeated for Barbican, but for a long time with nothing like a
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