Finally, there was Otto Melick, a litterateur from London, about thirty years of age, with a wiry and muscular frame, and the restless manner of one who lives in a perpetual fidget.
For some time nothing was said; they partook of the repast in silence; but at length it became evident that they were thinking of the mysterious manuscript.

Featherstone was the first to speak.
"A deuced queer sort of thing this, too," said he, "this manuscript.
I can't quite make it out.

Who ever dreamed of people living at the South Pole--and in a warm climate, too?
Then it seems deuced odd, too, that we should pick up this copper cylinder with the manuscript.

I hardly know what to think about it." Melick smiled.

"Why, it isn't much to see through," said he.
"See through what ?" said the doctor, hastily, pricking up his ears at this, and peering keenly at Melick through his spectacles.
"Why, the manuscript, of course." "Well," said the doctor, "what is it that you see?
What do you make out of it ?" "Why, anyone can see," said Melick, "that it's a transparent hoax, that's all.