Ten o'clock
Nicholl , with compressed lips and hands crossed behind his back , walked with a firm and measured step . Michel Ardan , always at his ease , clothed in a perfect travelling suit , with leather gaiters on his legs , pouch at his side , in vast garment of maroon velvet , a cigar in his mouth , distributed shakes of the hand with princely prodigality . He was full of inexhaustible gaiety , laughing , joking , playing pranks upon the worthy J.T. Maston , and was , in a word , `` French , '' and , what is worse , `` Parisian , '' till the last second . Ten o'clock struck . The moment had come to take their places in the projectile ; the necessary mechanism for the descent the door-plate to screw down , the removal of the cranes and scaffolding hung over the mouth of the Columbiad , took some time . Barbicane had set his chronometer to the tenth of a second by that of the engineer Murchison , who was entrusted with setting fire to the powder by means of the electric spark ; the travellers shut up in the projectile could thus watch the impassive needle which was going to mark the precise instant of their departure . The moment for saying farewell had come .