But then, between the 2nd and 9th of June, there came a new series of facts which could not possibly be explained by the unaided existence of a cosmic phenomenon.
In a week the Hamburgers at the top of St. Michael’s Tower, the Turks on the highest minaret of St. Sophia, the Rouennais at the end of the metal spire of their cathedral, the Strasburgers at the summit of their minster, the Americans on the head of the Liberty statue at the entrance of the Hudson and on the Bunker Hill monument at Boston, the Chinese at the spike of the temple of the Four Hundred Genii at Canton, the Hindus on the sixteenth terrace of the pyramid of the temple at Tanjore, the San Pietrini at the cross of St. Peter’s at Rome, the English at the cross of St. Paul’s in London, the Egyptians at the apex of the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Parisians at the lightning conductor of the iron tower of the Exposition of 1889, a thousand feet high, all of them beheld a flag floating from some one of these inaccessible points.
And the flag was black, dotted with stars, and it bore a golden sun in its center.
II
Agreement Impossible
“And the first who says the contrary—”
“Indeed! But we will say the contrary so long as there is a place to say it in!”
“And in spite of your threats—”
“Mind what you are saying, Bat Fynn!”
“Mind what you are saying, Uncle Prudent!”
“I maintain that the screw ought to be behind!”
“And so do we! And so do we!” replied half a hundred voices confounded in one.
“No! It ought to be in front!” shouted Phil Evans.
“In front!” roared fifty other voices, with a vigor in no whit less remarkable.
“We shall never agree!”
“Never! Never!”
“Then what is the use of a dispute?”
“It is not a dispute! It is a discussion!”
One would not have thought so to listen to the taunts, objurgations, and vociferations which filled the lecture room for a good quarter of an hour.
The room was one of the largest in the Weldon Institute, the well-known club in Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, U.S.A.
The evening before there had been an election of a lamplighter, occasioning many public manifestations, noisy meetings, and even interchanges of blows, resulting in an effervescence which had not yet subsided, and which would account for some of the excitement just exhibited by the members of the Weldon Institute. For this was merely a meeting of balloonists, discussing the burning question of the direction of balloons.
It took place in a town of the United States whose development has been more rapid than that of New York, Chicago, Cincinnati, or San Francisco, a city which is neither a port nor a mining center for coal or petroleum, nor an agglomeration of manufactories, nor a terminus of radiating railways; a town larger than Manchester, Edinburgh, Liverpool, Vienna, Petersburg, or Dublin; a town possessing a park in which the seven parks of the English capital could all be packed together; a town containing over a million people; the fourth or fifth town of the world after London, Paris, and New York.
Philadelphia is almost a city of marble, with its palatial houses and its unrivaled public establishments. The most important of the colleges of the New World is the Girard College, and it is at Philadelphia. The largest iron bridge on the globe is that across the Schuylkill, and that is at Philadelphia. The finest temple of the Freemasons is the Masonic Temple at Philadelphia. And the largest club of experts in aerial navigation is at Philadelphia, and if we had visited it on this evening of the 12th of June we might have found something to interest us.
In this great saloon there were struggling, pushing, gesticulating, shouting, arguing, disputing, a hundred balloonists, all with their hats on, under the authority of a president, assisted by a secretary and treasurer. They were not engineers by profession, but simply amateurs of all that appertained to aerostatics, and they were amateurs in a fury, and especially foes of those who would oppose to aerostats “apparatuses heavier than the air,” flying machines, aerial ships, or whatnot. That these people might one day discover the method of guiding balloons is possible. There could be no doubt that their president had considerable difficulty in guiding them.
This president, well known in Philadelphia, was the famous Uncle Prudent, Prudent being his family name. There is nothing surprising in America in the qualificative uncle, for you can there be uncle without having either nephew or niece. There they speak of uncle as in other places they speak of father, though the father may have had no children.
Uncle Prudent was a personage of consideration, and in spite of his name was well known for his audacity. He was very rich, and that is no drawback even in the United States; and how could it be otherwise when he owned the greater part of the shares in Niagara Falls? A society of engineers had just been founded at Buffalo for working the cataract. It seemed to be an excellent speculation. The seven thousand five hundred cubic meters that pass over Niagara in a second would produce seven millions of horsepower. This enormous power, distributed amongst all the workshops within a radius of three hundred miles, would return an annual income of three hundred million dollars, of which the greater part would find its way into the pocket of Uncle Prudent. He was a bachelor, he lived quietly, and for his only servant had his valet Frycollin, who was hardly worthy of being the servant to so audacious a master.
Uncle Prudent was rich, and therefore he had friends, as was natural; but he also had enemies, although he was president of the club—among others all those who envied his position. Amongst his bitterest foes we may mention the secretary of the Weldon Institute.
This was Phil Evans, who was also very rich, being
