"It's already like a hot-house.

With a little garden clay, I could raise you a splendid crop of peas in twenty-four hours.

I hope in heaven the walls of our Projectile won't melt like wax!" "Don't be alarmed, dear friend," observed Barbican, quietly.

"The Projectile has seen the worst as far as heat is concerned; when tearing through the atmosphere, she endured a temperature with which what she is liable to at present stands no comparison.

In fact, I should not be astonished if, in the eyes of our friends at Stony Hill, it had resembled for a moment or two a red-hot meteor." "Poor Marston must have looked on us as roasted alive!" observed Ardan.
"What could have saved us I'm sure I can't tell," replied Barbican.