This sea was a marvel.  Since all the water hazards above described emptied into it, it was little more than a huge expanse of punch, one swallow of which, thanks to these ingredients and the sugar and nutmeg from the bunkers, would make a man forget an eternity of troubles until he woke up again, if he ever did.  Here Jupiter sported every variety of pleasure craft, and, by an ingenious system of funnels arranged about its sixty-square-mile area, could at a moment’s notice produce any variety of breeze he chanced to wish; and its submarine bottom was so designed that if a heavy sea were wanted to make the yacht pitch and toss, a simple mechanical device would cause it to hump itself into such corrugations, large or small, as were needed to bring about the desired conditions.

“Do they allow bathing in that?” I asked, as the Major Domo explained the peculiar feature of this in-door sea to me.

My companion laughed.  “Only one person ever tried it with any degree of success, and it nearly cost him his reputation.  Old Bacchus undertook to swim on a wager from Chambertin Inlet to Glenlivet Bay, but he had to give up before he got as far as Pommery Point.  It took him a year to get rid of his headache, and it actually required three-quarters of the Treasury Reserve to provide gold enough to cure him.”

“It must be a terrible place to fall overboard in,” I suggested.

“It is, if you fall head first,” said the Major Domo, “and my observation is that most people do.”

“I should admire to sail upon it,” I said, gazing back through the door that opened upon Jupiter’s yachting parlors, and realizing on a sudden a powerful sense of thirst.

“I have no doubt you can do so,” said the Major Domo.  “Indeed, I understand that his Majesty contemplates taking you for a sail to the lost island of Atlantis before you return to earth.”

“What?” I cried.  “The lost island of Atlantis here?”

“Of course,” said my guide.  “Why not?  It was too beautiful for earth, so Jupiter had it transported to his own private yachting pond, and it has been here ever since.  It is marvellously beautiful.”

Hardly had I recovered from my amazement over the Major Domo’s announcement when he pointed to another open door.

“The Royal Arena,” he said, simply.  “That is where we have our Olympian Games.  There was a football game there yesterday.  Too bad you were not there.  It was the liveliest game of the season.  All Hades played the Olympian eleven for the championship of the universe.  We licked ’em four hundred to nothing; but of course we had an exceptional team.  When Hercules is in shape there isn’t a man-jack in all Hades that can withstand him.  He’s rush-line, centre, full-back, half-back, and flying wedge, all rolled into one.  Then the Hades chaps made the bad mistake of sending a star team.  When you have an eleven made up of Hannibal and Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great and Napoleon Bonaparte and the