about seven o'clock in the morning of December
2nd
At sea , where between waves or winds or paddles or screws or machinery , everything is tremor , quiver or jar ? In the air , where the balloon is incessantly twirling , oscillating , on account of the ever varying strata of different densities , and even occasionally threatening to spill you out ? The Projectile alone , floating grandly through the absolute void , in the midst of the profoundest silence , could offer to its inmates the possibility of enjoying slumber the most complete , repose the most profound . There is no telling how long our three daring travellers would have continued to enjoy their sleep , if it had not been suddenly terminated by an unexpected noise about seven o'clock in the morning of December 2nd , eight hours after their departure . This noise was most decidedly of barking . `` The dogs ! It 's the dogs ! ''