The harbour was oval in form, and large enough to hold some twenty ships. It was more of a wet dock than a harbour terminated by jetties; two piers, supported on iron piles, and lighted by two lamps, facilitating the entry of vessels from the sea.

On that day the wet dock contained only half a dozen steamers, some destined for the transport of petroleum, others for the transport of the goods needed for daily consumption, and a few barques fitted with electrical apparatus employed in sea fishing.

Frascolin noticed that the entrance of the harbour faced the north, and concluded that it must be on the north shore of one of those points which jut out from Lower California into the Pacific. He also noticed that there was a current in the sea running eastward at an appreciable speed, as it ran against the pierheads like the water along the side of a ship when under way—an effect due doubtless to the action of the rising tide, although the tide does not run very strong on the western coast of America.

“Where is the river we crossed yesterday in the ferry boat?” asked Frascolin.

“That is at the back of us,” the Yankee was content to reply.

But it would not do to delay if they wished to return to the town in time to take the evening train to San Diego.

Zorn mentioned this to Munbar, who answered, —

“Never fear, my dear friends. We have plenty of time. A tram will take us back to the town after we have followed the shore, a little. You wished to have a bird’s-eye view of the place, and in less than an hour you will get that from the top of the observatory.”

“You guarantee that?” said Zorn.

“I guarantee that at sunrise to-morrow you will no longer be where you are now.”

This enigmatic reply had to be accepted; although Frascolin’s curiosity, which was much greater than that of his comrades, was excited to the utmost. He was impatient to find himself at the summit of this tower, from which the American affirmed that the view extended to a horizon of at least a hundred miles in circumference. After that, if he could not fix the geographical position of this extraordinary city, he would have to give up the problem for ever.

At the head of the dock was a second tram line running along the coast. There was a train of cars, six in number, in which a number of passengers had already taken their seats. These cars were drawn by an electric locomotive, with a capacity of two hundred ampères-ohms, and their speed was from nine to twelve miles an hour.

Calistus Munbar invited the quartette to take their places in the tram, and it seemed as though it had only been waiting for our Parisians. The country appeared to differ very little from the park which lay between the town and the harbour. The same flat soil, and as carefully looked after. Green fields and meadows instead of lawns, that was all, fields of vegetables, not of cereals. At this moment artificial rain, projected from subterranean conduits, was falling in a beneficent shower on the long rectangles traced by line and square. The sky could not have distributed it more mathematically or more opportunely.

The tram road skirted the coast, with the sea on one side, the fields on the other. The cars ran along in this way for about four miles. Then they stopped before a battery of twelve guns of heavy calibre, the entrance to which bore the inscription “Prow Battery.”

“Cannons which load but do not discharge by the breech, like so many of those in Old Europe,” said Calistus Munbar.

Hereabouts the coast was deeply indented. A sort of cape ran out, very long and narrow, like the prow of a ship, or the ram of a man-of-war, on which the waves divided, sprinkling it with their white foam. The effect of the current probably, for the sea in the offing was reduced to long undulations, which were getting smaller and smaller with the setting of the sun.

From this point another line of rails went off towards the centre, while the other continued to follow the curve of the coast; and Calistus Munbar made his friends change cars, announcing that they would return direct towards the city.

The excursion had lasted long enough.

Calistus Munbar drew out his watch, a masterpiece of Sivan, of Geneva—a talking watch, a phonographic watch —of which he pressed the button, and which distinctly spoke, “Thirteen minutes past four.”

“You will not forget the ascent of the observatory?” Frascolin reminded him.

“Forget it, my dear, and I may say my old, friends! I would sooner forget my own name, which enjoys a certain celebrity, I believe. In another four miles we shall be in front of the magnificent edifice, built at the end of First Avenue, that which divides the two sections of our town.”

The tram started. Beyond were the fields, on which fell the afternoon rain, as the American called it; here again was the enclosed park with its fences, its lawns, its beds and its shrubberies.

Half-past four then chimed. Two hands indicated the hour on a gigantic dial, like that of the Houses of Parliament at Westminster, on the face of a quadrangular tower.

At the foot of this tower were the buildings of the observatory, devoted to different duties, some of which, with round metal roofs and glass windows, allowed the astronomers to follow the circuit of the stars. There were arranged round a central court, from the midst of which rose the tower for a hundred and fifty feet. From its upper gallery the view around would extend over a radius of sixteen miles, if the horizon were not bounded by any high ground or mountains.

Calistus Munbar, preceding his guests, entered a door which was opened to him by a porter in superb livery.

At the end of the hall the lift cage was waiting, which was worked by electricity. The quartette took their places in it with their guide. The cage ascended slowly and quietly. Forty-five seconds after they stopped at the level of the upper platform of the tower. From this platform rose the staff of a gigantic flag, of which the bunting floated out in the northerly breeze.

Of what nationality was this flag? None of our Parisians could recognize it. It was like the American ensign, with its lateral stripes of white and red, but the upper canton, instead of the sixty-seven stars which twinkled in the Confederation at this epoch, bore only one, a star or rather a sun of gold on a blue ground, which seemed to rival in brilliancy the star of day.

“Our flag, gentlemen,” said Calistus Munbar, taking off his hat as a mark of respect.

Sebastien Zorn and his comrades could not do otherwise than follow his example. Then they advanced to the parapet and looked over.

What a shriek—at first of surprise and then of anger— escaped them!

The country lay extended beneath them. The country was a perfect oval, surrounded by a horizon of sea, and as far as the eye could carry no land was in sight.