He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures.

"In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds.

_Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr.Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information.

How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine.

The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write ?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question.
"Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one.
"A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another.
"The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third.
"Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks.