Our long journey home was interrupted by one more almost tragic episode.
When we had been ten days in flight, and the earth had become like a
round moon of dazzling brilliance, Juba's dog, which had grown feeble and
refused to eat, died. Jack was broken-hearted, and protested when Edmund
said that the body of the animal must be thrown out. He would have liked
to try to stuff the skin, but Edmund was firm.
"But if you open a window," I said, "the air will escape."
"Some of it will undoubtedly escape," Edmund replied. "But, luckily, this
is the air of Venus which we are carrying, and being very dense, we can
spare a little of it without serious results. I shall be quick, and there
will be no danger."
It was as he had said. When the window was partially opened, for only a
second or two, we distinctly felt a lowering of the atmospheric pressure
that made us gasp for a moment, but instantly Edmund had the window
closed again, and we were all right. As we shot away we saw the little
white body gleaming in the sunlight like a thistledown, and then it
disappeared forever.
"It is a new planet born," said Edmund, "and the law of gravitation will
pay it as much attention as if it were a Jupiter.
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