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Title: Around the World in Eighty Days

Author: Jules Verne

Translator: G. M. Towle

Release Date: January, 1994 [eBook #103]

[Most recently updated: August 6, 2021]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS ***

[Illustration]

Around the World in Eighty Days

by Jules Verne

Contents

CHAPTER I. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PASSEPARTOUT ACCEPT EACH OTHER, THE ONE AS MASTER, THE OTHER AS MAN

CHAPTER II. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL

CHAPTER III. IN WHICH A CONVERSATION TAKES PLACE WHICH SEEMS LIKELY TO COST PHILEAS FOGG DEAR

CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG ASTOUNDS PASSEPARTOUT, HIS SERVANT

CHAPTER V. IN WHICH A NEW SPECIES OF FUNDS, UNKNOWN TO THE MONEYED MEN, APPEARS ON ’CHANGE

CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH FIX, THE DETECTIVE, BETRAYS A VERY NATURAL IMPATIENCE

CHAPTER VII. WHICH ONCE MORE DEMONSTRATES THE USELESSNESS OF PASSPORTS AS AIDS TO DETECTIVES

CHAPTER VIII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT TALKS RATHER MORE, PERHAPS, THAN IS PRUDENT

CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH THE RED SEA AND THE INDIAN OCEAN PROVE PROPITIOUS TO THE DESIGNS OF PHILEAS FOGG

CHAPTER X. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS ONLY TOO GLAD TO GET OFF WITH THE LOSS OF HIS SHOES

CHAPTER XI. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SECURES A CURIOUS MEANS OF CONVEYANCE AT A FABULOUS PRICE

CHAPTER XII. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND HIS COMPANIONS VENTURE ACROSS THE INDIAN FORESTS, AND WHAT ENSUED

CHAPTER XIII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT RECEIVES A NEW PROOF THAT FORTUNE FAVORS THE BRAVE

CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG DESCENDS THE WHOLE LENGTH OF THE BEAUTIFUL VALLEY OF THE GANGES WITHOUT EVER THINKING OF SEEING IT

CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH THE BAG OF BANKNOTES DISGORGES SOME THOUSANDS OF POUNDS MORE

CHAPTER XVI. IN WHICH FIX DOES NOT SEEM TO UNDERSTAND IN THE LEAST WHAT IS SAID TO HIM

CHAPTER XVII. SHOWING WHAT HAPPENED ON THE VOYAGE FROM SINGAPORE TO HONG KONG

CHAPTER XVIII. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG, PASSEPARTOUT, AND FIX GO EACH ABOUT HIS BUSINESS

CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT TAKES A TOO GREAT INTEREST IN HIS MASTER, AND WHAT COMES OF IT

CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH FIX COMES FACE TO FACE WITH PHILEAS FOGG

CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH THE MASTER OF THE “TANKADERE” RUNS GREAT RISK OF LOSING A REWARD OF TWO HUNDRED POUNDS

CHAPTER XXII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT FINDS OUT THAT, EVEN AT THE ANTIPODES, IT IS CONVENIENT TO HAVE SOME MONEY IN ONE’S POCKET

CHAPTER XXIII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT’S NOSE BECOMES OUTRAGEOUSLY LONG

CHAPTER XXIV. DURING WHICH MR. FOGG AND PARTY CROSS THE PACIFIC OCEAN

CHAPTER XXV. IN WHICH A SLIGHT GLIMPSE IS HAD OF SAN FRANCISCO

CHAPTER XXVI. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PARTY TRAVEL BY THE PACIFIC RAILROAD

CHAPTER XXVII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT UNDERGOES, AT A SPEED OF TWENTY MILES AN HOUR, A COURSE OF MORMON HISTORY

CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT DOES NOT SUCCEED IN MAKING ANYBODY LISTEN TO REASON

CHAPTER XXIX. IN WHICH CERTAIN INCIDENTS ARE NARRATED WHICH ARE ONLY TO BE MET WITH ON AMERICAN RAILROADS

CHAPTER XXX. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SIMPLY DOES HIS DUTY

CHAPTER XXXI. IN WHICH FIX, THE DETECTIVE, CONSIDERABLY FURTHERS THE INTERESTS OF PHILEAS FOGG

CHAPTER XXXII. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG ENGAGES IN A DIRECT STRUGGLE WITH BAD FORTUNE

CHAPTER XXXIII. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SHOWS HIMSELF EQUAL TO THE OCCASION

CHAPTER XXXIV. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AT LAST REACHES LONDON

CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG DOES NOT HAVE TO REPEAT HIS ORDERS TO PASSEPARTOUT TWICE

CHAPTER XXXVI. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG’S NAME IS ONCE MORE AT A PREMIUM ON ’CHANGE

CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT PHILEAS FOGG GAINED NOTHING BY HIS TOUR AROUND THE WORLD, UNLESS IT WERE HAPPINESS

CHAPTER I.

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PASSEPARTOUT ACCEPT EACH OTHER, THE ONE AS

MASTER, THE OTHER AS MAN

Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington

Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the

most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to

avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little

was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said

that he resembled Byron—at least that his head was Byronic; but he was

a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without

growing old.

Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was

a Londoner. He was never seen on ’Change, nor at the Bank, nor in the

counting-rooms of the “City”; no ships ever came into London docks of

which he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never been

entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln’s

Inn, or Gray’s Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of

Chancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen’s Bench, or the

Ecclesiastical Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he

a merchant or a gentleman farmer. His name was strange to the

scientific and learned societies, and he never was known to take part

in the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution or the London

Institution, the Artisan’s Association, or the Institution of Arts and

Sciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societies which

swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the

Entomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious

insects.

Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all.

The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simple

enough.

He was recommended by the Barings, with whom he had an open credit. His

cheques were regularly paid at sight from his account current, which

was always flush.

Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could

not imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last

person to whom to apply for the information. He was not lavish, nor, on

the contrary, avaricious; for, whenever he knew that money was needed

for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quietly and

sometimes anonymously. He was, in short, the least communicative of

men. He talked very little, and seemed all the more mysterious for his

taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite open to observation; but

whatever he did was so exactly the same thing that he had always done

before, that the wits of the curious were fairly puzzled.

Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world

more familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear

to have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a

few clear words, the thousand conjectures advanced by members of the

club as to lost and unheard-of travellers, pointing out the true

probabilities, and seeming as if gifted with a sort of second sight, so

often did events justify his predictions. He must have travelled

everywhere, at least in the spirit.

It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself from

London for many years. Those who were honoured by a better acquaintance

with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretend to have ever

seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the papers and

playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as a silent one,

harmonised with his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse,

being reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played, not to

win, but for the sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a

struggle with a difficulty, yet a motionless, unwearying struggle,

congenial to his tastes.

Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children, which may

happen to the most honest people; either relatives or near friends,

which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house in Saville

Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed to serve him.

He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed, in

the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other

members, much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly

midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He never used the cosy

chambers which the Reform provides for its favoured members. He passed

ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row, either in sleeping or

making his toilet. When he chose to take a walk it was with a regular

step in the entrance hall with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular

gallery with its dome supported by twenty red porphyry Ionic columns,

and illumined by blue painted windows. When he breakfasted or dined all

the resources of the club—its kitchens and pantries, its buttery and

dairy—aided to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was

served by the gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin

soles, who proffered the viands in special porcelain, and on the finest

linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port,

and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly

cooled with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes.

If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed that

there is something good in eccentricity.

The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly

comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such as to demand but

little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required him to be

almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he

had dismissed James Forster, because that luckless youth had brought

him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of

eighty-six; and he was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house

between eleven and half-past.

Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet close

together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his

knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching a

complicated clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the seconds,

the days, the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr.

Fogg would, according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair

to the Reform.

A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where

Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant,

appeared.

“The new servant,” said he.

A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.

“You are a Frenchman, I believe,” asked Phileas Fogg, “and your name is

John?”

“Jean, if monsieur pleases,” replied the newcomer, “Jean Passepartout,

a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for

going out of one business into another. I believe I’m honest, monsieur,

but, to be outspoken, I’ve had several trades. I’ve been an itinerant

singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on

a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as

to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at

Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France five years

ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as

a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that

Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in the

United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with him

a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout.”

“Passepartout suits me,” responded Mr. Fogg. “You are well recommended

to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Good! What time is it?”

“Twenty-two minutes after eleven,” returned Passepartout, drawing an

enormous silver watch from the depths of his pocket.

“You are too slow,” said Mr. Fogg.

“Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible—”

“You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it’s enough to mention the

error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven, a.m.,

this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my service.”

Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head

with an automatic motion, and went off without a word.

Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new master

going out. He heard it shut again; it was his predecessor, James

Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone in the

house in Saville Row.

CHAPTER II.

IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL

“Faith,” muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, “I’ve seen people at

Madame Tussaud’s as lively as my new master!”

Madame Tussaud’s “people,” let it be said, are of wax, and are much

visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human.

During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been

carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of

age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his

hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his

face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in

the highest degree what physiognomists call “repose in action,” a

quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a

clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure

which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen

in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being

perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer.

Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed

even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well

as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions.

He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was

economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step

too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he

made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or

agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always

reached his destination at the exact moment.

He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and

as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and

that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.

As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had

abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he

had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was

by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Molière with a bold

gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a

pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable,

with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a

friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost

portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully

developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was

somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have

known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva’s tresses, Passepartout was

familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of a

large-tooth comb completed his toilet.

It would be rash to predict how Passepartout’s lively nature would

agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant

would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required;

experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort

of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far

he had failed to find it, though he had already served in ten English

houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he

found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly

running about the country, or on the look-out for adventure. His last

master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his

nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the

morning on policemen’s shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting

the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such

conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr.

Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of

unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from home

overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He

presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen.

At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the

house in Saville Row. He began its inspection without delay, scouring

it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion

pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail’s shell, lighted and warmed

by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout

reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he was to

inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and

speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while on

the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg’s

bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. “That’s

good, that’ll do,” said Passepartout to himself.

He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon

inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house.

It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the

morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past

eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club—all the details of

service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the

shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at

twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen that

was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at

which the methodical gentleman retired.

Mr. Fogg’s wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair

of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year

and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and

the same system was applied to the master’s shoes. In short, the house

in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and

unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness,

comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there

books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the

Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law

and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his

bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but

Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere;

everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits.

Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a

broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, “This is

just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What

a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don’t mind

serving a machine.”

CHAPTER III.

IN WHICH A CONVERSATION TAKES PLACE WHICH SEEMS LIKELY TO COST PHILEAS

FOGG DEAR

Phileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half-past eleven,

and having put his right foot before his left five hundred and

seventy-five times, and his left foot before his right five hundred and

seventy-six times, reached the Reform Club, an imposing edifice in Pall

Mall, which could not have cost less than three millions. He repaired

at once to the dining-room, the nine windows of which open upon a

tasteful garden, where the trees were already gilded with an autumn

colouring; and took his place at the habitual table, the cover of which

had already been laid for him. His breakfast consisted of a side-dish,

a broiled fish with Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of roast beef

garnished with mushrooms, a rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a morsel

of Cheshire cheese, the whole being washed down with several cups of

tea, for which the Reform is famous. He rose at thirteen minutes to

one, and directed his steps towards the large hall, a sumptuous

apartment adorned with lavishly-framed paintings. A flunkey handed him

an uncut _Times_, which he proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed

familiarity with this delicate operation. The perusal of this paper

absorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, whilst the

_Standard_, his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour. Dinner

passed as breakfast had done, and Mr. Fogg re-appeared in the

reading-room and sat down to the _Pall Mall_ at twenty minutes before

six. Half an hour later several members of the Reform came in and drew

up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were

Mr. Fogg’s usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John

Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and

Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of England—all rich

and highly respectable personages, even in a club which comprises the

princes of English trade and finance.

“Well, Ralph,” said Thomas Flanagan, “what about that robbery?”

“Oh,” replied Stuart, “the Bank will lose the money.”

“On the contrary,” broke in Ralph, “I hope we may put our hands on the

robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all the principal ports of

America and the Continent, and he’ll be a clever fellow if he slips

through their fingers.”

“But have you got the robber’s description?” asked Stuart.

“In the first place, he is no robber at all,” returned Ralph,

positively.

“What! a fellow who makes off with fifty-five thousand pounds, no

robber?”

“No.”

“Perhaps he’s a manufacturer, then.”

“The _Daily Telegraph_ says that he is a gentleman.”

It was Phileas Fogg, whose head now emerged from behind his newspapers,

who made this remark. He bowed to his friends, and entered into the

conversation. The affair which formed its subject, and which was town

talk, had occurred three days before at the Bank of England. A package

of banknotes, to the value of fifty-five thousand pounds, had been

taken from the principal cashier’s table, that functionary being at the

moment engaged in registering the receipt of three shillings and

sixpence. Of course, he could not have his eyes everywhere. Let it be

observed that the Bank of England reposes a touching confidence in the

honesty of the public. There are neither guards nor gratings to protect

its treasures; gold, silver, banknotes are freely exposed, at the mercy

of the first comer. A keen observer of English customs relates that,

being in one of the rooms of the Bank one day, he had the curiosity to

examine a gold ingot weighing some seven or eight pounds. He took it

up, scrutinised it, passed it to his neighbour, he to the next man, and

so on until the ingot, going from hand to hand, was transferred to the

end of a dark entry; nor did it return to its place for half an hour.

Meanwhile, the cashier had not so much as raised his head. But in the

present instance things had not gone so smoothly. The package of notes

not being found when five o’clock sounded from the ponderous clock in

the “drawing office,” the amount was passed to the account of profit

and loss. As soon as the robbery was discovered, picked detectives

hastened off to Liverpool, Glasgow, Havre, Suez, Brindisi, New York,

and other ports, inspired by the proffered reward of two thousand

pounds, and five per cent. on the sum that might be recovered.

Detectives were also charged with narrowly watching those who arrived

at or left London by rail, and a judicial examination was at once

entered upon.

There were real grounds for supposing, as the _Daily Telegraph_ said,

that the thief did not belong to a professional band. On the day of the

robbery a well-dressed gentleman of polished manners, and with a

well-to-do air, had been observed going to and fro in the paying room

where the crime was committed. A description of him was easily procured

and sent to the detectives; and some hopeful spirits, of whom Ralph was

one, did not despair of his apprehension. The papers and clubs were

full of the affair, and everywhere people were discussing the

probabilities of a successful pursuit; and the Reform Club was

especially agitated, several of its members being Bank officials.

Ralph would not concede that the work of the detectives was likely to

be in vain, for he thought that the prize offered would greatly

stimulate their zeal and activity. But Stuart was far from sharing this

confidence; and, as they placed themselves at the whist-table, they

continued to argue the matter. Stuart and Flanagan played together,

while Phileas Fogg had Fallentin for his partner. As the game proceeded

the conversation ceased, excepting between the rubbers, when it revived

again.

“I maintain,” said Stuart, “that the chances are in favour of the

thief, who must be a shrewd fellow.”

“Well, but where can he fly to?” asked Ralph. “No country is safe for

him.”

“Pshaw!”

“Where could he go, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know that. The world is big enough.”

“It was once,” said Phileas Fogg, in a low tone. “Cut, sir,” he added,

handing the cards to Thomas Flanagan.

The discussion fell during the rubber, after which Stuart took up its

thread.

“What do you mean by ‘once’? Has the world grown smaller?”

“Certainly,” returned Ralph. “I agree with Mr. Fogg. The world has

grown smaller, since a man can now go round it ten times more quickly

than a hundred years ago. And that is why the search for this thief

will be more likely to succeed.”

“And also why the thief can get away more easily.”

“Be so good as to play, Mr. Stuart,” said Phileas Fogg.

But the incredulous Stuart was not convinced, and when the hand was

finished, said eagerly: “You have a strange way, Ralph, of proving that

the world has grown smaller. So, because you can go round it in three

months—”

“In eighty days,” interrupted Phileas Fogg.

“That is true, gentlemen,” added John Sullivan. “Only eighty days, now

that the section between Rothal and Allahabad, on the Great Indian

Peninsula Railway, has been opened. Here is the estimate made by the

_Daily Telegraph:_—

From London to Suez _viâ_ Mont Cenis and Brindisi, by rail and

steamboats ................. 7 days

From Suez to Bombay, by steamer .................... 13 ”

From Bombay to Calcutta, by rail ................... 3 ”

From Calcutta to Hong Kong, by steamer ............. 13 ”

From Hong Kong to Yokohama (Japan), by steamer ..... 6 ”

From Yokohama to San Francisco, by steamer ......... 22 ”

From San Francisco to New York, by rail ............. 7 ”

From New York to London, by steamer and rail ........ 9 ”

-------

Total ............................................ 80 days.”

“Yes, in eighty days!” exclaimed Stuart, who in his excitement made a

false deal. “But that doesn’t take into account bad weather, contrary

winds, shipwrecks, railway accidents, and so on.”

“All included,” returned Phileas Fogg, continuing to play despite the

discussion.

“But suppose the Hindoos or Indians pull up the rails,” replied Stuart;

“suppose they stop the trains, pillage the luggage-vans, and scalp the

passengers!”

“All included,” calmly retorted Fogg; adding, as he threw down the

cards, “Two trumps.”

Stuart, whose turn it was to deal, gathered them up, and went on: “You

are right, theoretically, Mr. Fogg, but practically—”

“Practically also, Mr. Stuart.”

“I’d like to see you do it in eighty days.”

“It depends on you. Shall we go?”

“Heaven preserve me! But I would wager four thousand pounds that such a

journey, made under these conditions, is impossible.”

“Quite possible, on the contrary,” returned Mr. Fogg.

“Well, make it, then!”

“The journey round the world in eighty days?”

“Yes.”

“I should like nothing better.”

“When?”

“At once. Only I warn you that I shall do it at your expense.”

“It’s absurd!” cried Stuart, who was beginning to be annoyed at the

persistency of his friend. “Come, let’s go on with the game.”

“Deal over again, then,” said Phileas Fogg. “There’s a false deal.”

Stuart took up the pack with a feverish hand; then suddenly put them

down again.

“Well, Mr. Fogg,” said he, “it shall be so: I will wager the four

thousand on it.”

“Calm yourself, my dear Stuart,” said Fallentin. “It’s only a joke.”

“When I say I’ll wager,” returned Stuart, “I mean it.”

“All right,” said Mr. Fogg; and, turning to the others, he continued:

“I have a deposit of twenty thousand at Baring’s which I will willingly

risk upon it.”

“Twenty thousand pounds!” cried Sullivan. “Twenty thousand pounds,

which you would lose by a single accidental delay!”

“The unforeseen does not exist,” quietly replied Phileas Fogg.

“But, Mr. Fogg, eighty days are only the estimate of the least possible

time in which the journey can be made.”

“A well-used minimum suffices for everything.”

“But, in order not to exceed it, you must jump mathematically from the

trains upon the steamers, and from the steamers upon the trains again.”

“I will jump—mathematically.”

“You are joking.”

“A true Englishman doesn’t joke when he is talking about so serious a

thing as a wager,” replied Phileas Fogg, solemnly. “I will bet twenty

thousand pounds against anyone who wishes that I will make the tour of

the world in eighty days or less; in nineteen hundred and twenty hours,

or a hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred minutes. Do you accept?”

“We accept,” replied Messrs. Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan, and

Ralph, after consulting each other.

“Good,” said Mr. Fogg. “The train leaves for Dover at a quarter before

nine. I will take it.”

“This very evening?” asked Stuart.

“This very evening,” returned Phileas Fogg. He took out and consulted a

pocket almanac, and added, “As today is Wednesday, the 2nd of October,

I shall be due in London in this very room of the Reform Club, on

Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine p.m.; or else

the twenty thousand pounds, now deposited in my name at Baring’s, will

belong to you, in fact and in right, gentlemen. Here is a cheque for

the amount.”

A memorandum of the wager was at once drawn up and signed by the six

parties, during which Phileas Fogg preserved a stoical composure. He

certainly did not bet to win, and had only staked the twenty thousand

pounds, half of his fortune, because he foresaw that he might have to

expend the other half to carry out this difficult, not to say

unattainable, project. As for his antagonists, they seemed much

agitated; not so much by the value of their stake, as because they had

some scruples about betting under conditions so difficult to their

friend.

The clock struck seven, and the party offered to suspend the game so

that Mr. Fogg might make his preparations for departure.

“I am quite ready now,” was his tranquil response. “Diamonds are

trumps: be so good as to play, gentlemen.”

CHAPTER IV.

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG ASTOUNDS PASSEPARTOUT, HIS SERVANT

Having won twenty guineas at whist, and taken leave of his friends,

Phileas Fogg, at twenty-five minutes past seven, left the Reform Club.

Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied the programme of his

duties, was more than surprised to see his master guilty of the

inexactness of appearing at this unaccustomed hour; for, according to

rule, he was not due in Saville Row until precisely midnight.

Mr. Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out, “Passepartout!”

Passepartout did not reply. It could not be he who was called; it was

not the right hour.

“Passepartout!” repeated Mr. Fogg, without raising his voice.

Passepartout made his appearance.

“I’ve called you twice,” observed his master.

“But it is not midnight,” responded the other, showing his watch.

“I know it; I don’t blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten

minutes.”

A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout’s round face; clearly he had not

comprehended his master.

“Monsieur is going to leave home?”

“Yes,” returned Phileas Fogg. “We are going round the world.”

Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his

hands, and seemed about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied

astonishment.

“Round the world!” he murmured.

“In eighty days,” responded Mr. Fogg. “So we haven’t a moment to lose.”

“But the trunks?” gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head

from right to left.

“We’ll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three

pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We’ll buy our clothes

on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and traveling-cloak, and some

stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!”

Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his

own room, fell into a chair, and muttered: “That’s good, that is! And

I, who wanted to remain quiet!”

He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure. Around

the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke,

then? They were going to Dover; good! To Calais; good again! After all,

Passepartout, who had been away from France five years, would not be

sorry to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would go as

far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But

surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no

doubt—but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away, this

so domestic person hitherto!

By eight o’clock Passepartout had packed the modest carpet-bag,

containing the wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still

troubled in mind, he carefully shut the door of his room, and descended

to Mr. Fogg.

Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a

red-bound copy of Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Steam Transit and

General Guide, with its timetables showing the arrival and departure of

steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped

into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass

wherever he might go.

“You have forgotten nothing?” asked he.

“Nothing, monsieur.”

“My mackintosh and cloak?”

“Here they are.”

“Good! Take this carpet-bag,” handing it to Passepartout. “Take good

care of it, for there are twenty thousand pounds in it.”

Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds

were in gold, and weighed him down.

Master and man then descended, the street-door was double-locked, and

at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing

Cross. The cab stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes

past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box and followed his master,

who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the station, when a

poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared

with mud, her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a

tattered feather, and her shoulders shrouded in a ragged shawl,

approached, and mournfully asked for alms.

Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and

handed them to the beggar, saying, “Here, my good woman. I’m glad that

I met you;” and passed on.

Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his master’s action

touched his susceptible heart.

Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased, Mr.

Fogg was crossing the station to the train, when he perceived his five

friends of the Reform.

“Well, gentlemen,” said he, “I’m off, you see; and, if you will examine

my passport when I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have

accomplished the journey agreed upon.”

“Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg,” said Ralph politely.

“We will trust your word, as a gentleman of honour.”

“You do not forget when you are due in London again?” asked Stuart.

“In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter

before nine p.m. Good-bye, gentlemen.”

Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves in a first-class

carriage at twenty minutes before nine; five minutes later the whistle

screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the station.

The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was falling. Phileas Fogg,

snugly ensconced in his corner, did not open his lips. Passepartout,

not yet recovered from his stupefaction, clung mechanically to the

carpet-bag, with its enormous treasure.

Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham, Passepartout suddenly

uttered a cry of despair.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“Alas! In my hurry—I—I forgot—”

“What?”

“To turn off the gas in my room!”

“Very well, young man,” returned Mr. Fogg, coolly; “it will burn—at

your expense.”

CHAPTER V.

IN WHICH A NEW SPECIES OF FUNDS, UNKNOWN TO THE MONEYED MEN, APPEARS ON

’CHANGE

Phileas Fogg rightly suspected that his departure from London would

create a lively sensation at the West End. The news of the bet spread

through the Reform Club, and afforded an exciting topic of conversation

to its members. From the club it soon got into the papers throughout

England. The boasted “tour of the world” was talked about, disputed,

argued with as much warmth as if the subject were another Alabama

claim. Some took sides with Phileas Fogg, but the large majority shook

their heads and declared against him; it was absurd, impossible, they

declared, that the tour of the world could be made, except

theoretically and on paper, in this minimum of time, and with the

existing means of travelling. The _Times, Standard, Morning Post_, and

_Daily News_, and twenty other highly respectable newspapers scouted

Mr. Fogg’s project as madness; the _Daily Telegraph_ alone hesitatingly

supported him. People in general thought him a lunatic, and blamed his

Reform Club friends for having accepted a wager which betrayed the

mental aberration of its proposer.

Articles no less passionate than logical appeared on the question, for

geography is one of the pet subjects of the English; and the columns

devoted to Phileas Fogg’s venture were eagerly devoured by all classes

of readers. At first some rash individuals, principally of the gentler

sex, espoused his cause, which became still more popular when the

_Illustrated London News_ came out with his portrait, copied from a

photograph in the Reform Club. A few readers of the _Daily Telegraph_

even dared to say, “Why not, after all? Stranger things have come to

pass.”

At last a long article appeared, on the 7th of October, in the bulletin

of the Royal Geographical Society, which treated the question from

every point of view, and demonstrated the utter folly of the

enterprise.

Everything, it said, was against the travellers, every obstacle imposed

alike by man and by nature. A miraculous agreement of the times of

departure and arrival, which was impossible, was absolutely necessary

to his success. He might, perhaps, reckon on the arrival of trains at

the designated hours, in Europe, where the distances were relatively

moderate; but when he calculated upon crossing India in three days, and

the United States in seven, could he rely beyond misgiving upon

accomplishing his task? There were accidents to machinery, the

liability of trains to run off the line, collisions, bad weather, the

blocking up by snow—were not all these against Phileas Fogg? Would he

not find himself, when travelling by steamer in winter, at the mercy of

the winds and fogs? Is it uncommon for the best ocean steamers to be

two or three days behind time? But a single delay would suffice to

fatally break the chain of communication; should Phileas Fogg once

miss, even by an hour; a steamer, he would have to wait for the next,

and that would irrevocably render his attempt vain.

This article made a great deal of noise, and, being copied into all the

papers, seriously depressed the advocates of the rash tourist.

Everybody knows that England is the world of betting men, who are of a

higher class than mere gamblers; to bet is in the English temperament.

Not only the members of the Reform, but the general public, made heavy

wagers for or against Phileas Fogg, who was set down in the betting

books as if he were a race-horse. Bonds were issued, and made their

appearance on ’Change; “Phileas Fogg bonds” were offered at par or at a

premium, and a great business was done in them. But five days after the

article in the bulletin of the Geographical Society appeared, the

demand began to subside: “Phileas Fogg” declined. They were offered by

packages, at first of five, then of ten, until at last nobody would

take less than twenty, fifty, a hundred!

Lord Albemarle, an elderly paralytic gentleman, was now the only

advocate of Phileas Fogg left. This noble lord, who was fastened to his

chair, would have given his fortune to be able to make the tour of the

world, if it took ten years; and he bet five thousand pounds on Phileas

Fogg. When the folly as well as the uselessness of the adventure was

pointed out to him, he contented himself with replying, “If the thing

is feasible, the first to do it ought to be an Englishman.”

The Fogg party dwindled more and more, everybody was going against him,

and the bets stood a hundred and fifty and two hundred to one; and a

week after his departure an incident occurred which deprived him of

backers at any price.

The commissioner of police was sitting in his office at nine o’clock

one evening, when the following telegraphic dispatch was put into his

hands:

_Suez to London._

ROWAN, COMMISSIONER OF POLICE, SCOTLAND YARD:

I’ve found the bank robber, Phileas Fogg. Send without delay

warrant of arrest to Bombay.

FIX, _Detective_.

The effect of this dispatch was instantaneous. The polished gentleman

disappeared to give place to the bank robber. His photograph, which was

hung with those of the rest of the members at the Reform Club, was

minutely examined, and it betrayed, feature by feature, the description

of the robber which had been provided to the police. The mysterious

habits of Phileas Fogg were recalled; his solitary ways, his sudden

departure; and it seemed clear that, in undertaking a tour round the

world on the pretext of a wager, he had had no other end in view than

to elude the detectives, and throw them off his track.

CHAPTER VI.

IN WHICH FIX, THE DETECTIVE, BETRAYS A VERY NATURAL IMPATIENCE

The circumstances under which this telegraphic dispatch about Phileas

Fogg was sent were as follows:

The steamer “Mongolia,” belonging to the Peninsular and Oriental

Company, built of iron, of two thousand eight hundred tons burden, and

five hundred horse-power, was due at eleven o’clock a.m. on Wednesday,

the 9th of October, at Suez. The “Mongolia” plied regularly between

Brindisi and Bombay _viâ_ the Suez Canal, and was one of the fastest

steamers belonging to the company, always making more than ten knots an

hour between Brindisi and Suez, and nine and a half between Suez and

Bombay.

Two men were promenading up and down the wharves, among the crowd of

natives and strangers who were sojourning at this once straggling

village—now, thanks to the enterprise of M. Lesseps, a fast-growing

town. One was the British consul at Suez, who, despite the prophecies

of the English Government, and the unfavourable predictions of

Stephenson, was in the habit of seeing, from his office window, English

ships daily passing to and fro on the great canal, by which the old

roundabout route from England to India by the Cape of Good Hope was

abridged by at least a half. The other was a small, slight-built

personage, with a nervous, intelligent face, and bright eyes peering

out from under eyebrows which he was incessantly twitching. He was just

now manifesting unmistakable signs of impatience, nervously pacing up

and down, and unable to stand still for a moment. This was Fix, one of

the detectives who had been dispatched from England in search of the

bank robber; it was his task to narrowly watch every passenger who

arrived at Suez, and to follow up all who seemed to be suspicious

characters, or bore a resemblance to the description of the criminal,

which he had received two days before from the police headquarters at

London. The detective was evidently inspired by the hope of obtaining

the splendid reward which would be the prize of success, and awaited

with a feverish impatience, easy to understand, the arrival of the

steamer “Mongolia.”

“So you say, consul,” asked he for the twentieth time, “that this

steamer is never behind time?”

“No, Mr. Fix,” replied the consul. “She was bespoken yesterday at Port

Said, and the rest of the way is of no account to such a craft. I

repeat that the ‘Mongolia’ has been in advance of the time required by

the company’s regulations, and gained the prize awarded for excess of

speed.”

“Does she come directly from Brindisi?”

“Directly from Brindisi; she takes on the Indian mails there, and she

left there Saturday at five p.m. Have patience, Mr. Fix; she will not

be late. But really, I don’t see how, from the description you have,

you will be able to recognise your man, even if he is on board the

‘Mongolia.’”

“A man rather feels the presence of these fellows, consul, than

recognises them. You must have a scent for them, and a scent is like a

sixth sense which combines hearing, seeing, and smelling. I’ve arrested

more than one of these gentlemen in my time, and, if my thief is on

board, I’ll answer for it; he’ll not slip through my fingers.”

“I hope so, Mr. Fix, for it was a heavy robbery.”

“A magnificent robbery, consul; fifty-five thousand pounds! We don’t

often have such windfalls. Burglars are getting to be so contemptible

nowadays! A fellow gets hung for a handful of shillings!”

“Mr. Fix,” said the consul, “I like your way of talking, and hope

you’ll succeed; but I fear you will find it far from easy. Don’t you

see, the description which you have there has a singular resemblance to

an honest man?”

“Consul,” remarked the detective, dogmatically, “great robbers always

resemble honest folks. Fellows who have rascally faces have only one

course to take, and that is to remain honest; otherwise they would be

arrested off-hand. The artistic thing is, to unmask honest

countenances; it’s no light task, I admit, but a real art.”

Mr. Fix evidently was not wanting in a tinge of self-conceit.

Little by little the scene on the quay became more animated; sailors of

various nations, merchants, ship-brokers, porters, fellahs, bustled to

and fro as if the steamer were immediately expected. The weather was

clear, and slightly chilly. The minarets of the town loomed above the

houses in the pale rays of the sun. A jetty pier, some two thousand

yards along, extended into the roadstead. A number of fishing-smacks

and coasting boats, some retaining the fantastic fashion of ancient

galleys, were discernible on the Red Sea.

As he passed among the busy crowd, Fix, according to habit, scrutinised

the passers-by with a keen, rapid glance.

It was now half-past ten.

“The steamer doesn’t come!” he exclaimed, as the port clock struck.

“She can’t be far off now,” returned his companion.

“How long will she stop at Suez?”

“Four hours; long enough to get in her coal. It is thirteen hundred and

ten miles from Suez to Aden, at the other end of the Red Sea, and she

has to take in a fresh coal supply.”

“And does she go from Suez directly to Bombay?”

“Without putting in anywhere.”

“Good!” said Fix. “If the robber is on board he will no doubt get off

at Suez, so as to reach the Dutch or French colonies in Asia by some

other route. He ought to know that he would not be safe an hour in

India, which is English soil.”

“Unless,” objected the consul, “he is exceptionally shrewd. An English

criminal, you know, is always better concealed in London than anywhere

else.”

This observation furnished the detective food for thought, and

meanwhile the consul went away to his office. Fix, left alone, was more

impatient than ever, having a presentiment that the robber was on board

the “Mongolia.” If he had indeed left London intending to reach the New

World, he would naturally take the route _viâ_ India, which was less

watched and more difficult to watch than that of the Atlantic. But

Fix’s reflections were soon interrupted by a succession of sharp

whistles, which announced the arrival of the “Mongolia.” The porters

and fellahs rushed down the quay, and a dozen boats pushed off from the

shore to go and meet the steamer. Soon her gigantic hull appeared

passing along between the banks, and eleven o’clock struck as she

anchored in the road. She brought an unusual number of passengers, some

of whom remained on deck to scan the picturesque panorama of the town,

while the greater part disembarked in the boats, and landed on the

quay.

Fix took up a position, and carefully examined each face and figure

which made its appearance. Presently one of the passengers, after

vigorously pushing his way through the importunate crowd of porters,

came up to him and politely asked if he could point out the English

consulate, at the same time showing a passport which he wished to have

_visaed_. Fix instinctively took the passport, and with a rapid glance

read the description of its bearer. An involuntary motion of surprise

nearly escaped him, for the description in the passport was identical

with that of the bank robber which he had received from Scotland Yard.

“Is this your passport?” asked he.

“No, it’s my master’s.”

“And your master is—”

“He stayed on board.”

“But he must go to the consul’s in person, so as to establish his

identity.”

“Oh, is that necessary?”

“Quite indispensable.”

“And where is the consulate?”

“There, on the corner of the square,” said Fix, pointing to a house two

hundred steps off.

“I’ll go and fetch my master, who won’t be much pleased, however, to be

disturbed.”

The passenger bowed to Fix, and returned to the steamer.

CHAPTER VII.

WHICH ONCE MORE DEMONSTRATES THE USELESSNESS OF PASSPORTS AS AIDS TO

DETECTIVES

The detective passed down the quay, and rapidly made his way to the

consul’s office, where he was at once admitted to the presence of that

official.

“Consul,” said he, without preamble, “I have strong reasons for

believing that my man is a passenger on the ‘Mongolia.’” And he

narrated what had just passed concerning the passport.

“Well, Mr. Fix,” replied the consul, “I shall not be sorry to see the

rascal’s face; but perhaps he won’t come here—that is, if he is the

person you suppose him to be. A robber doesn’t quite like to leave

traces of his flight behind him; and, besides, he is not obliged to

have his passport countersigned.”

“If he is as shrewd as I think he is, consul, he will come.”

“To have his passport _visaed?_”

“Yes. Passports are only good for annoying honest folks, and aiding in

the flight of rogues. I assure you it will be quite the thing for him

to do; but I hope you will not _visa_ the passport.”

“Why not? If the passport is genuine I have no right to refuse.”

“Still, I must keep this man here until I can get a warrant to arrest

him from London.”

“Ah, that’s your look-out. But I cannot—”

The consul did not finish his sentence, for as he spoke a knock was

heard at the door, and two strangers entered, one of whom was the

servant whom Fix had met on the quay. The other, who was his master,

held out his passport with the request that the consul would do him the

favour to _visa_ it. The consul took the document and carefully read

it, whilst Fix observed, or rather devoured, the stranger with his eyes

from a corner of the room.

“You are Mr. Phileas Fogg?” said the consul, after reading the

passport.

“I am.”

“And this man is your servant?”

“He is: a Frenchman, named Passepartout.”

“You are from London?”

“Yes.”

“And you are going—”

“To Bombay.”

“Very good, sir. You know that a _visa_ is useless, and that no

passport is required?”

“I know it, sir,” replied Phileas Fogg; “but I wish to prove, by your

_visa_, that I came by Suez.”

“Very well, sir.”

The consul proceeded to sign and date the passport, after which he

added his official seal. Mr. Fogg paid the customary fee, coldly bowed,

and went out, followed by his servant.

“Well?” queried the detective.

“Well, he looks and acts like a perfectly honest man,” replied the

consul.

“Possibly; but that is not the question. Do you think, consul, that

this phlegmatic gentleman resembles, feature by feature, the robber

whose description I have received?”

“I concede that; but then, you know, all descriptions—”

“I’ll make certain of it,” interrupted Fix. “The servant seems to me

less mysterious than the master; besides, he’s a Frenchman, and can’t

help talking. Excuse me for a little while, consul.”

Fix started off in search of Passepartout.

Meanwhile Mr. Fogg, after leaving the consulate, repaired to the quay,

gave some orders to Passepartout, went off to the “Mongolia” in a boat,

and descended to his cabin. He took up his note-book, which contained

the following memoranda:

“Left London, Wednesday, October 2nd, at 8.45 p.m.

“Reached Paris, Thursday, October 3rd, at 7.20 a.m.

“Left Paris, Thursday, at 8.40 a.m.

“Reached Turin by Mont Cenis, Friday, October 4th, at 6.35 a.m.

“Left Turin, Friday, at 7.20 a.m.

“Arrived at Brindisi, Saturday, October 5th, at 4 p.m.

“Sailed on the ‘Mongolia,’ Saturday, at 5 p.m.

“Reached Suez, Wednesday, October 9th, at 11 a.m.

“Total of hours spent, 158½; or, in days, six days and a half.”

These dates were inscribed in an itinerary divided into columns,

indicating the month, the day of the month, and the day for the

stipulated and actual arrivals at each principal point Paris, Brindisi,

Suez, Bombay, Calcutta, Singapore, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco,

New York, and London—from the 2nd of October to the 21st of December;

and giving a space for setting down the gain made or the loss suffered

on arrival at each locality. This methodical record thus contained an

account of everything needed, and Mr. Fogg always knew whether he was

behind-hand or in advance of his time. On this Friday, October 9th, he

noted his arrival at Suez, and observed that he had as yet neither

gained nor lost. He sat down quietly to breakfast in his cabin, never

once thinking of inspecting the town, being one of those Englishmen who

are wont to see foreign countries through the eyes of their domestics.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT TALKS RATHER MORE, PERHAPS, THAN IS PRUDENT

Fix soon rejoined Passepartout, who was lounging and looking about on

the quay, as if he did not feel that he, at least, was obliged not to

see anything.

“Well, my friend,” said the detective, coming up with him, “is your

passport _visaed?_”

“Ah, it’s you, is it, monsieur?” responded Passepartout. “Thanks, yes,

the passport is all right.”

“And you are looking about you?”

“Yes; but we travel so fast that I seem to be journeying in a dream. So

this is Suez?”

“Yes.”

“In Egypt?”

“Certainly, in Egypt.”

“And in Africa?”

“In Africa.”

“In Africa!” repeated Passepartout. “Just think, monsieur, I had no

idea that we should go farther than Paris; and all that I saw of Paris

was between twenty minutes past seven and twenty minutes before nine in

the morning, between the Northern and the Lyons stations, through the

windows of a car, and in a driving rain! How I regret not having seen

once more Père la Chaise and the circus in the Champs Elysées!”

“You are in a great hurry, then?”

“I am not, but my master is. By the way, I must buy some shoes and

shirts. We came away without trunks, only with a carpet-bag.”

“I will show you an excellent shop for getting what you want.”

“Really, monsieur, you are very kind.”

And they walked off together, Passepartout chatting volubly as they

went along.

“Above all,” said he; “don’t let me lose the steamer.”

“You have plenty of time; it’s only twelve o’clock.”

Passepartout pulled out his big watch. “Twelve!” he exclaimed; “why,

it’s only eight minutes before ten.”

“Your watch is slow.”

“My watch? A family watch, monsieur, which has come down from my

great-grandfather! It doesn’t vary five minutes in the year. It’s a

perfect chronometer, look you.”

“I see how it is,” said Fix. “You have kept London time, which is two

hours behind that of Suez. You ought to regulate your watch at noon in

each country.”

“I regulate my watch? Never!”

“Well, then, it will not agree with the sun.”

“So much the worse for the sun, monsieur. The sun will be wrong, then!”

And the worthy fellow returned the watch to its fob with a defiant

gesture. After a few minutes silence, Fix resumed: “You left London

hastily, then?”

“I rather think so! Last Friday at eight o’clock in the evening,

Monsieur Fogg came home from his club, and three-quarters of an hour

afterwards we were off.”

“But where is your master going?”

“Always straight ahead. He is going round the world.”

“Round the world?” cried Fix.

“Yes, and in eighty days! He says it is on a wager; but, between us, I

don’t believe a word of it. That wouldn’t be common sense. There’s

something else in the wind.”

“Ah! Mr. Fogg is a character, is he?”

“I should say he was.”

“Is he rich?”

“No doubt, for he is carrying an enormous sum in brand new banknotes

with him. And he doesn’t spare the money on the way, either: he has

offered a large reward to the engineer of the ‘Mongolia’ if he gets us

to Bombay well in advance of time.”

“And you have known your master a long time?”

“Why, no; I entered his service the very day we left London.”

The effect of these replies upon the already suspicious and excited

detective may be imagined. The hasty departure from London soon after

the robbery; the large sum carried by Mr. Fogg; his eagerness to reach

distant countries; the pretext of an eccentric and foolhardy bet—all

confirmed Fix in his theory. He continued to pump poor Passepartout,

and learned that he really knew little or nothing of his master, who

lived a solitary existence in London, was said to be rich, though no

one knew whence came his riches, and was mysterious and impenetrable in

his affairs and habits. Fix felt sure that Phileas Fogg would not land

at Suez, but was really going on to Bombay.

“Is Bombay far from here?” asked Passepartout.

“Pretty far. It is a ten days’ voyage by sea.”

“And in what country is Bombay?”

“India.”

“In Asia?”

“Certainly.”

“The deuce! I was going to tell you there’s one thing that worries

me—my burner!”

“What burner?”

“My gas-burner, which I forgot to turn off, and which is at this moment

burning at my expense. I have calculated, monsieur, that I lose two

shillings every four and twenty hours, exactly sixpence more than I

earn; and you will understand that the longer our journey—”

Did Fix pay any attention to Passepartout’s trouble about the gas? It

is not probable. He was not listening, but was cogitating a project.

Passepartout and he had now reached the shop, where Fix left his

companion to make his purchases, after recommending him not to miss the

steamer, and hurried back to the consulate. Now that he was fully

convinced, Fix had quite recovered his equanimity.

“Consul,” said he, “I have no longer any doubt. I have spotted my man.

He passes himself off as an odd stick who is going round the world in

eighty days.”

“Then he’s a sharp fellow,” returned the consul, “and counts on

returning to London after putting the police of the two countries off

his track.”

“We’ll see about that,” replied Fix.

“But are you not mistaken?”

“I am not mistaken.”

“Why was this robber so anxious to prove, by the _visa_, that he had

passed through Suez?”

“Why? I have no idea; but listen to me.”

He reported in a few words the most important parts of his conversation

with Passepartout.

“In short,” said the consul, “appearances are wholly against this man.

And what are you going to do?”

“Send a dispatch to London for a warrant of arrest to be dispatched

instantly to Bombay, take passage on board the ‘Mongolia,’ follow my

rogue to India, and there, on English ground, arrest him politely, with

my warrant in my hand, and my hand on his shoulder.”

Having uttered these words with a cool, careless air, the detective

took leave of the consul, and repaired to the telegraph office, whence

he sent the dispatch which we have seen to the London police office. A

quarter of an hour later found Fix, with a small bag in his hand,

proceeding on board the “Mongolia;” and, ere many moments longer, the

noble steamer rode out at full steam upon the waters of the Red Sea.

CHAPTER IX.

IN WHICH THE RED SEA AND THE INDIAN OCEAN PROVE PROPITIOUS TO THE

DESIGNS OF PHILEAS FOGG

The distance between Suez and Aden is precisely thirteen hundred and

ten miles, and the regulations of the company allow the steamers one

hundred and thirty-eight hours in which to traverse it. The “Mongolia,”

thanks to the vigorous exertions of the engineer, seemed likely, so

rapid was her speed, to reach her destination considerably within that

time. The greater part of the passengers from Brindisi were bound for

India some for Bombay, others for Calcutta by way of Bombay, the

nearest route thither, now that a railway crosses the Indian peninsula.

Among the passengers was a number of officials and military officers of

various grades, the latter being either attached to the regular British

forces or commanding the Sepoy troops, and receiving high salaries ever

since the central government has assumed the powers of the East India

Company: for the sub-lieutenants get £280, brigadiers, £2,400, and

generals of divisions, £4,000. What with the military men, a number of

rich young Englishmen on their travels, and the hospitable efforts of

the purser, the time passed quickly on the “Mongolia.” The best of fare

was spread upon the cabin tables at breakfast, lunch, dinner, and the

eight o’clock supper, and the ladies scrupulously changed their toilets

twice a day; and the hours were whirled away, when the sea was

tranquil, with music, dancing, and games.

But the Red Sea is full of caprice, and often boisterous, like most

long and narrow gulfs. When the wind came from the African or Asian

coast the “Mongolia,” with her long hull, rolled fearfully. Then the

ladies speedily disappeared below; the pianos were silent; singing and

dancing suddenly ceased. Yet the good ship ploughed straight on,

unretarded by wind or wave, towards the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. What

was Phileas Fogg doing all this time? It might be thought that, in his

anxiety, he would be constantly watching the changes of the wind, the

disorderly raging of the billows—every chance, in short, which might

force the “Mongolia” to slacken her speed, and thus interrupt his

journey. But, if he thought of these possibilities, he did not betray

the fact by any outward sign.

Always the same impassible member of the Reform Club, whom no incident

could surprise, as unvarying as the ship’s chronometers, and seldom

having the curiosity even to go upon the deck, he passed through the

memorable scenes of the Red Sea with cold indifference; did not care to

recognise the historic towns and villages which, along its borders,

raised their picturesque outlines against the sky; and betrayed no fear

of the dangers of the Arabic Gulf, which the old historians always

spoke of with horror, and upon which the ancient navigators never

ventured without propitiating the gods by ample sacrifices. How did

this eccentric personage pass his time on the “Mongolia”? He made his

four hearty meals every day, regardless of the most persistent rolling

and pitching on the part of the steamer; and he played whist

indefatigably, for he had found partners as enthusiastic in the game as

himself. A tax-collector, on the way to his post at Goa; the Rev.

Decimus Smith, returning to his parish at Bombay; and a

brigadier-general of the English army, who was about to rejoin his

brigade at Benares, made up the party, and, with Mr. Fogg, played whist

by the hour together in absorbing silence.

As for Passepartout, he, too, had escaped sea-sickness, and took his

meals conscientiously in the forward cabin. He rather enjoyed the

voyage, for he was well fed and well lodged, took a great interest in

the scenes through which they were passing, and consoled himself with

the delusion that his master’s whim would end at Bombay. He was

pleased, on the day after leaving Suez, to find on deck the obliging

person with whom he had walked and chatted on the quays.

“If I am not mistaken,” said he, approaching this person, with his most

amiable smile, “you are the gentleman who so kindly volunteered to

guide me at Suez?”

“Ah! I quite recognise you. You are the servant of the strange

Englishman—”

“Just so, monsieur—”

“Fix.”

“Monsieur Fix,” resumed Passepartout, “I’m charmed to find you on

board. Where are you bound?”

“Like you, to Bombay.”

“That’s capital! Have you made this trip before?”

“Several times. I am one of the agents of the Peninsular Company.”

“Then you know India?”

“Why yes,” replied Fix, who spoke cautiously.

“A curious place, this India?”

“Oh, very curious. Mosques, minarets, temples, fakirs, pagodas, tigers,

snakes, elephants! I hope you will have ample time to see the sights.”

“I hope so, Monsieur Fix. You see, a man of sound sense ought not to

spend his life jumping from a steamer upon a railway train, and from a

railway train upon a steamer again, pretending to make the tour of the

world in eighty days! No; all these gymnastics, you may be sure, will

cease at Bombay.”

“And Mr. Fogg is getting on well?” asked Fix, in the most natural tone

in the world.

“Quite well, and I too. I eat like a famished ogre; it’s the sea air.”

“But I never see your master on deck.”

“Never; he hasn’t the least curiosity.”

“Do you know, Mr. Passepartout, that this pretended tour in eighty days

may conceal some secret errand—perhaps a diplomatic mission?”

“Faith, Monsieur Fix, I assure you I know nothing about it, nor would I

give half a crown to find out.”

After this meeting, Passepartout and Fix got into the habit of chatting

together, the latter making it a point to gain the worthy man’s

confidence. He frequently offered him a glass of whiskey or pale ale in

the steamer bar-room, which Passepartout never failed to accept with

graceful alacrity, mentally pronouncing Fix the best of good fellows.

Meanwhile the “Mongolia” was pushing forward rapidly; on the 13th,

Mocha, surrounded by its ruined walls whereon date-trees were growing,

was sighted, and on the mountains beyond were espied vast

coffee-fields. Passepartout was ravished to behold this celebrated

place, and thought that, with its circular walls and dismantled fort,

it looked like an immense coffee-cup and saucer. The following night

they passed through the Strait of Bab-el-Mandeb, which means in Arabic

“The Bridge of Tears,” and the next day they put in at Steamer Point,

north-west of Aden harbour, to take in coal. This matter of fuelling

steamers is a serious one at such distances from the coal-mines; it

costs the Peninsular Company some eight hundred thousand pounds a year.

In these distant seas, coal is worth three or four pounds sterling a

ton.

The “Mongolia” had still sixteen hundred and fifty miles to traverse

before reaching Bombay, and was obliged to remain four hours at Steamer

Point to coal up. But this delay, as it was foreseen, did not affect

Phileas Fogg’s programme; besides, the “Mongolia,” instead of reaching

Aden on the morning of the 15th, when she was due, arrived there on the

evening of the 14th, a gain of fifteen hours.

Mr. Fogg and his servant went ashore at Aden to have the passport again

_visaed;_ Fix, unobserved, followed them. The _visa_ procured, Mr. Fogg

returned on board to resume his former habits; while Passepartout,

according to custom, sauntered about among the mixed population of

Somalis, Banyans, Parsees, Jews, Arabs, and Europeans who comprise the

twenty-five thousand inhabitants of Aden. He gazed with wonder upon the

fortifications which make this place the Gibraltar of the Indian Ocean,

and the vast cisterns where the English engineers were still at work,

two thousand years after the engineers of Solomon.

“Very curious, _very_ curious,” said Passepartout to himself, on

returning to the steamer. “I see that it is by no means useless to

travel, if a man wants to see something new.” At six p.m. the

“Mongolia” slowly moved out of the roadstead, and was soon once more on

the Indian Ocean. She had a hundred and sixty-eight hours in which to

reach Bombay, and the sea was favourable, the wind being in the

north-west, and all sails aiding the engine. The steamer rolled but

little, the ladies, in fresh toilets, reappeared on deck, and the

singing and dancing were resumed. The trip was being accomplished most

successfully, and Passepartout was enchanted with the congenial

companion which chance had secured him in the person of the delightful

Fix. On Sunday, October 20th, towards noon, they came in sight of the

Indian coast: two hours later the pilot came on board. A range of hills

lay against the sky in the horizon, and soon the rows of palms which

adorn Bombay came distinctly into view. The steamer entered the road

formed by the islands in the bay, and at half-past four she hauled up

at the quays of Bombay.

Phileas Fogg was in the act of finishing the thirty-third rubber of the

voyage, and his partner and himself having, by a bold stroke, captured

all thirteen of the tricks, concluded this fine campaign with a

brilliant victory.

The “Mongolia” was due at Bombay on the 22nd; she arrived on the 20th.

This was a gain to Phileas Fogg of two days since his departure from

London, and he calmly entered the fact in the itinerary, in the column

of gains.