He tried to look out, but observing without having anybody to listen to your observations, is dull work.

He looked again at the sleeping pair, and then he gave in.
"It can't be denied," he muttered, slowly nodding his head, "that even your practical men sometimes stumble on a good idea." Then curling up his long legs, and folding his arms under his head, his restless brain was soon forming fantastic shapes for itself in the mysterious land of dreams.
But his slumbers were too much disturbed to last long.

After an uneasy, restless, unrefreshing attempt at repose, he sat up at about half-past seven o'clock, and began stretching himself, when he found his companions already awake and discussing the situation in whispers.
The Projectile, they were remarking, was still pursuing its way from the Moon, and turning its conical point more and more in her direction.

This latter phenomenon, though as puzzling as ever, Barbican regarded with decided pleasure: the more directly the conical summit pointed to the Moon at the exact moment, the more directly towards her surface would the rockets communicate their reactionary motion.
Nearly seventeen hours, however, were still to elapse before that moment, that all important moment, would arrive.
The time began to drag.

The excitement produced by the Moon's vicinity had died out.