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Updated: May 19, 2025
A bandage over the eyes, a gag in the mouth, a cord round the wrists, a cord round the ankles, unable to see, to speak, or to move, Uncle Prudent, Phil Evans, and Frycollin were anything but pleased with their position.
Uncle Prudent, as may be imagined, did not attempt to quiet him. In fact, he encouraged him, and particularly as the incessant howling seemed to have a strangely irritating effect on Robur. When Tom Turner and his companions were getting ready for fishing, the engineer ordered them to shut up Frycollin in his cabin.
But neither of them would allow any of their very natural amazement to be visible. The valet Frycollin did not conceal his terror at finding himself borne through space on such a machine, and he took no pains whatever to hide it. The suspensory screws were rapidly spinning overhead. Fast as they were going, they would have to triple their speed if the "Albatross" was to ascend to higher zones.
The reply was heard by Phil Evans, who was then in the bow, where Frycollin was overwhelming him with piteous pleadings to be put "on the ground." Without replying to this preposterous request, Evans returned aft to Uncle Prudent; and there, taking care not to be overheard, he reported the conversation that had taken place.
Need we say that the majority of the crowd had come from afar not so much to see the "Go-Ahead" as to gaze on these extraordinary men? Why two and not three? Why not Frycollin? Because Frycollin thought his campaign in the "Albatross" sufficient for his fame.
Within a minute of the attack, without a word being passed, Uncle Prudent, Phil Evans, and Frycollin felt themselves laid gently down, not on the grass, but on a sort of plank that creaked beneath them. They were laid down side by side. A door was shut; and the grating of a bolt in a staple told them that they were prisoners.
The rope was paid out for a hundred feet and Frycollin found himself hanging in space. He could then shout at his ease. But fright contracted his larynx, and he was mute. Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans endeavored to prevent this performance. They were thrust aside. "It is scandalous! It is cowardly!" said Uncle Prudent, quite beside himself with rage. "Indeed!" said Robur.
We are adversaries no more." "You are right," answered Evans. "We are now only two men agreed to avenge ourselves on a third whose attempt deserves severe reprisals. And this third is " "Robur!" "It is Robur!" On this point both were absolutely in accord. On this subject there was no fear of dispute. "And your servant?" said Phil Evans, pointing to Frycollin, who was puffing like a grampus.
This was provoked by Frycollin, who, finding himself above the boundless sea, was seized with another fit of terror. Like a child, like the Negro he was, he gave himself over to groaning and protesting and crying, and writhing in a thousand contortions and grimaces. "I want to get out! I want to get out! I am not a bird! Boohoo! I don't want to fly, I want to get out!"
As they had said nothing of their adventures, it was thought they would then speak, and relate the impressions of their voyage. But for some reason or other both were silent. And so also was Frycollin, whom his congeners in their delirium had failed to dismember. But though the colleagues did not tell what had happened to them, that is no reason why we should not.
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