Around the World in Eighty Days

Jules Verne

Сhapter One

Master and Servant

In which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout accept the positions of master and servant respectively.

In the year 1872 the house, No. 7, Savile Row, Burlington Gardens, in which Sheridan died in 1816, was occupied by Phileas Fogg, Esquire, one of the most remarkable members of the Reform Club, though he always appeared very anxious to avoid attention.

Phileas Fogg had succeeded to the house of one of the greatest of English orators; but, unlike his predecessor, no one knew anything of Fogg; he was an enigmatical personage, though brave, and moving in the highest circles. It was said that he resembled Byron, merely in features, for his morals were irreproachable, but he was a Byron with moustaches and beard—an impassive Byron, one who might live a thousand years without getting old.

Though perhaps not a Londoner, Phileas Fogg was English to the backbone. He was never seen on the Stock Exchange, nor at the Bank, nor in any City house. No vessel consigned to Phileas Fogg ever entered the London Docks; he held no position under Government; he was not a lawyer at any of the Inns; he had never pleaded at the Queen’s Bench, the Chancery Bar, the Exchequer, nor the Ecclesiastical Courts; he was not a manufacturer, nor a merchant, nor a farmer; he was not a member of any of the learned societies of the metropolis. He was simply a member of the Reform Club.

If any one asked how he had become a member of such a distinguished club, he was told that he had been proposed by the Barings, who kept his account, which always showed a good balance, and his cheques were regularly honoured.

Was Phileas Fogg rich? Not a doubt of it. But not even the best informed could say how he had made his money, and Fogg was the last person in the world from whom the information could be obtained. He was never extravagant, but not stingy, for whenever his assistance was required for some useful or praiseworthy project he gave willingly and anonymously.

In short, he was one of the most taciturn of men; he spoke as seldom as possible, and appeared more mysterious as a result of his silence. Nevertheless his life was sufficiently open, but it was so mathematically arranged that to the imagination of the curious this circumstance rendered it more suspicious.

Had he travelled? Very likely, for no one knew more about geography than he did. There was no corner of the earth that he didn’t know. Sometimes in a few brief sentences he would clear up the rumours in his club respecting some lost or almost forgotten travellers; he would indicate the probabilities, and it would almost seem as if he possessed the gift of second-sight, so correctly were his anticipations subsequently justified. He must have been everywhere, in spirit at least.

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However, one thing was quite certain. He had not been away from London for years. His most intimate acquaintance could declare that he had never been seen anywhere else but at his club, or on his way to and from it. His only amusement was a game of whist or reading the newspapers. At whist, which suited his taciturn disposition, he was generally a winner, but he always spent his winnings in charity. Besides, it is worth notice that he always played for the game, not for the sake of making money. He played as a trial of skill, a fight against difficulties, but a contest in which no exertion was entailed upon him; he had not to move about nor to tire himself, and this suited him thoroughly.

No one knew whether Fogg had a wife or children, or whether he had relations or intimate friends, which are rare enough in all conscience. He lived alone in Savile Row, and no one ever called. He only kept one servant, he breakfasted and dined at his club at regular hours, at the same table, but he never asked an acquaintance to join him, nor did he ever invite a stranger; he went home to bed at midnight exactly, and he never occupied one of the comfortable bedrooms at the Reform. Of the twenty-four hours in each day he spent ten at his own house. If he took exercise it was in the hall at the club, with its mosaic pavement, or in the circular gallery, supported by twenty Ionic columns. Here he would walk up and down. When he dined or breakfasted, all the cooks, the steward, and the resources of the club were exercised to provide everything he desired. He was waited upon by grave servants dressed in black, who walked softly as they served him upon a special porcelain set, and with the most expensive damask. His sherry was handed to him in priceless decanters precisely cooled, and the port and claret were of the finest vintages.

If life under such conditions be any proof of eccentricity, it must be confessed that eccentricity has its good side.

The house in Savile Row, though not luxurious, was very comfortable; besides, in accordance with the habits of the owner, the service was reduced as much as possible, but Phileas Fogg was most particular - as regards punctuality. On the very day we are introduced to him (the 2nd of October), he had given his servant, James Foster, notice because he had had the temerity to bring up his master’s shaving-water at a temperature of 84° instead of 86°, and Phileas was now waiting a successor, who was expected between eleven and half-past eleven o’clock.

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Phileas Fogg was seated in his armchair, his feet at “attention,” his hands resting on his knees, his body upright, and his head erect. He was watching the clock. This complex piece of machinery told the hours, minutes, seconds, the days of the week, month, and year. When the chime of half-past eleven rang out, Mr. Fogg would leave the house for his club.

Just then a knock was heard at the door of the little sitting-room, and James Foster appeared.

“The new valet has come, sir,” he said.

A young fellow of about thirty entered, and bowed to Mr. Fogg.

“You are a Frenchman, and your name is John?” said Mr. Fogg.

“Jean, if it is all the same to you, sir,” replied the new-comer—“Jean Passepartout—a name which will stick to me, and which will be justified by my natural aptitude for change. I believe I am honest; but, to tell the truth, I have tried a great many things. I have been a singer, a circus-rider, an acrobat, and a rope-walker, then I became a professor of gymnastics, and at last, to make myself useful, I enrolled myself as a fireman in Paris, and can show you the scars of several burns. But it is now five years since I left France, and as I wished to enjoy domestic life I became a valet in England. Now being without a situation, and having heard that Mr. Phileas Fogg was the most punctual and the most sedentary gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have taken the liberty to come here for a quiet life, and to forget my name of Passepartout.”

“Passepartout suits me,” replied Mr. Fogg. “You have been recommended to me. You know my conditions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what time do you make it?”

“Twenty-two minutes past eleven,” replied Passepartout, pulling out an enormous silver watch.

“You are slow,” said Mr. Fogg.

“Excuse me, sir, that is impossible.”

“You are four minutes behind time. Never mind it is sufficient to have made a note of it. Well, then, from this moment, twenty-nine minutes past eleven a.m., the 2nd of October, 1872, you are in my service.”

As he spoke, Mr. Fogg rose, took up his hat in his left hand, put it on his head automatically, and left the room without another word.

Passepartout heard the door shut once—that was his master going out; he heard it shut a second time—that was his predecessor, James Foster, who was leaving in his turn.

Passepartout was left alone in the house in Savile Row.

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Chapter Two

Passepartout’s New Home

“My goodness,” said Passepartout, “I have seen figures at Madame Tussaud’s quite as cheerful as my new master.”

It should be said that Madame Tussaud’s figures are made of wax, and want nothing but the power of speech.

During the short time that Passepartout had been in the company of Mr. Fogg he had scrutinized him carefully. His future master seemed to be about forty, tall and well made, not too stout, and with noble, handsome features. His hair was fair, his brow was open, his face rather pale, and he had beautiful teeth.

He appeared to possess a very cool and collected disposition—common to all those who prefer deeds to words. Calm, phlegmatic, with clear steady eyes, he was very much a type of those Englishmen whom one frequently meets. In his everyday life Mr. Fogg gave one the idea of a perfectly-balanced being—a sort of chronometer—in fact, he was punctuality personified, and so much could be seen in the “expression of his hands and feet,” for with men, as amongst the lower animals, the limbs are expressive of passions.

Phileas Fogg was one of those people who are never in a hurry, and being always ready are economical of their movements. He never took a step too much; he always went the shortest way. He never wasted a look at the ceiling, and never permitted himself a needless gesture. No one had ever seen him agitated or annoyed; he never hurried himself, but was always in time.

He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside the social scale; he knew that there was a great deal of friction in life, and as friction retards progress he never rubbed against any one.

As for Passepartout, he was a Parisian of Parisians. For five years he had lived in England as valet-de-chambre, during which time he had vainly sought for such a master as he had now engaged himself to.

Passepartout was a good fellow, with pleasant features, ruddy lips ready to kiss or to eat, a good-natured serviceable lad, possessing one of those round heads which one is so glad to see on the shoulders of one’s friends.

He had blue eyes; his face was somewhat stout; he was very strong and muscular. He wore his brown hair in rather a ragged fashion.

If sculptors of antiquity knew eighteen ways of arranging the hair of Minerva, Passepartout knew only one way of arranging his—three strokes of a comb was sufficient for him.

To say that the young man’s character would agree with Mr. Fogg’s would be rash; whether Passepartout would suit his master remained to be proved—time will tell. After having passed his youth in such a vagabond fashion the lad looked forward to some response. He had often heard of the English methodical way of living, but up to the present time he had not succeeded in finding it. He had “taken root” nowhere, and he had tried six situations—in each there was something which did not suit him.

His latest proprietor, young Lord Longsferry, M.P., had passed his nights in questionable society, and had ended by being carried home by policemen.

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Passepartout, who wished above all things to respect his master, remonstrated. His suggestion was taken in ill part, and he discharged himself.

Just then he heard that Phileas Fogg was in want of a valet, and offered himself for the situation. A person whose existence was so methodical, who never slept away from home, who never travelled, who was never away for a day, was the very master for him. He presented himself and was successful, as we already know.

So Passepartout, at half-past eleven o’clock, found himself alone in the house. He immediately started to look around, and explored the house from cellar to garret. He was very pleased; the house seemed like a very pretty snail-shell, but a shell warmed and lighted. Passepartout soon found his room on the second floor, and was quite satisfied with it. Electric bells and acoustic tubes put him in communication with the rooms below. On the chimney-piece was an electric clock corresponding exactly with that in Mr. Fogg’s bedroom—the pendulums beat time to a second.

“This will do,” said Passepartout to himself.

He observed also in his room that a notice was fixed above the clock; this was a programme of his daily service from eight in the morning, when Mr. Fogg got up, till half-past eleven, when he went down to his club. It included all details: the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, his attendance on his master at twenty minutes to ten, etc. Then from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, when this methodical gentleman went to bed, everything was provided for. Passepartout was delighted, and joyfully sat down to master the details of the programme.

His master’s wardrobe was well stocked and marvellously neat. Every article bore a number and was noted in a book which showed at what seasons certain suits were to be worn. The same regulations were applied to boots and shoes.

In fact, in this house in Savile Row, which had been the temple of disorder in the days of Sheridan, order now reigned supreme. There was no library and there were no books; but these would have been useless to Mr. Fogg, as there was a capital library and a reading-room at his club. In his bedroom was a safe both burglar-proof and fireproof. There were no firearms in the house, nor any weapon of war or for sport. Everything denoted that the occupant was a man of most pacific character.

After having examined everything in detail, Passepartout rubbed his hands; his round face beamed with joy as he said—

“This will do for me very nicely. We understand each other thoroughly, Mr. Fogg and I. He is a most domestic individual—a perfect machine. Well, I am not sorry to serve a machine after all.”

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Сhapter Three

A Robbery and a Bet

Phileas Fogg left his house at half-past eleven, and having placed 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, he reached the Reform Club. He immediately went to the breakfast-room and took his place at the usual table near one of the open windows. His breakfast consisted of one hors d’oeuvre, a piece of boiled fish, a slice of underdone beef with mushrooms, rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and some Cheshire cheese, the whole washed down with some excellent tea, which is a speciality of the Reform Club.

At forty-seven minutes past twelve he went into the sitting-room, a magnificent apartment hung with splendid pictures. A servant handed him an uncut copy of the Times, which Fogg himself cut and folded with long practiced dexterity. The perusal of this paper occupied him until forty-five minutes past three, and the Standard, which succeeded, lasted till dinner, which was eaten under similar conditions to his breakfast.

At twenty minutes to six he returned to the drawing-room and read the Morning Chronicle.

Half-an-hour later several members of the club came in and stood with their backs to the fire. These were Mr. Fogg’s usual partners at whist, and were all enthusiastic players. They were Andrew Stuart, the engineer, John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers, Thomas Flanagan, a brewer, and Gauthier Ralph, one of the directors of the Bank of England, all men of wealth and standing, even in that club which includes so many members of consequence in financial and business circles.

“Well, Ralph,” said Flanagan, “how about this robber?”

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

“I expect not,” said Ralph. “I fancy we shall be able to catch the thief. There are very clever detectives at all the principal ports in Europe and America, and the fellow will find it difficult to escape.”

“They have the description of the thief, I suppose?” said Stuart.

“In the first place he is not a thief at all,” replied Ralph seriously.

“What! Do not you call a man a robber who has made away with fifty-five thousand pounds in banknotes?”

“No,” replied Gauthier Ralph.

“He is a man of business, then,” said John Sullivan.

“The Morning Chronicle says he is a gentleman.”

This observation was made by Phileas Fogg, who rose up from the sea of paper surrounding him, and greeted his group of friends.

The subject of discussion, which all the papers of the kingdom had taken up, was a certain robbery which had been committed three days before—namely, on the 29th of September. A pile of bank-notes to the amount of fifty-five thousand pounds had been stolen from the counter at the Bank of England.

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What astonished everybody was the fact that the theft had been so easily managed, and Gauthier Ralph took the trouble to explain that when the fifty-five thousand pounds were stolen, the cashier was industriously entering a sum of three shillings and sixpence, and of course could not have his eyes everywhere.

It may be remarked in passing, and this may account for the robbery, that the Bank of England has great faith in the honesty of the public. There are no guards nor commissionaires, or gratings; gold, silver, and notes are freely exposed, and, so to speak, at the mercy of anyone. No one is suspected. One of the closest observers of British customs has related the following experience:—

One day he was in the Bank parlour, and had the curiosity to examine an ingot of gold weighing six or seven pounds which happened to be on the table. He picked up the nugget, and when he had satisfied his curiosity he passed it to his neighbour. He in his turn passed it to the next man, and so on; the nugget went from hand to hand to the end of a long corridor, and was not returned to its place for half-an-hour, and all the time the cashier never even as much as looked up.

But on the 29th of September matters did not go so smoothly. The package of bank-notes was not returned, and when the clock in the “drawing office” struck five, at which hour the Bank is closed, fifty-five thousand pounds was written off to profit and loss.

As soon as the robbery was ascertained to be a fact, the most able detectives were sent down to Liverpool, Glasgow, Havre, to Suez, to Brindisi, and New York, etc., with a promise of a reward (if successful) of two thousand pounds, and five per cent. on the amount recovered. In the meantime these detectives were directed to take particular notice of all travellers arriving at or departing from these ports.

Now, as the Morning Chronicle said, there was some reason to think that the thief was not a member of a gang at all. More than once on the 29th of September a gentlemanly, well-dressed man had been seen frequently in the Bank near the place where the robbery had been committed. An exact description of this gentleman had been provided to all the detectives, and so some hopeful people, amongst whom was Gauthier Ralph, believed that the thief could not possibly escape.

Of course the robbery was the chief topic of conversation everywhere. The probabilities of success were discussed, and it is not surprising that the members of the Reform Club were also interested, particularly as one of the deputy governors of the Bank belonged to the club.

Mr. Ralph had no doubt of the ultimate success of the search because of the reward offered, which would stimulate the brains of the detectives, but his friend Andrew Stuart was of a different opinion. The discussion between these gentlemen was continued even at the whist-table, where Stuart was Flanagan’s partner, and Fallentin played with Phileas Fogg. They did not argue while they played, but between the rubbers conversation flowed.

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“I maintain that the odds are in favour of the thief,” said Stuart. “He must be a sharp fellow.”

“But,” replied Ralph, “where can he go to?”

“What do you say?”

“Where can he go to?”

“I don’t know,” replied Stuart, “but there are plenty of places in the world for him.”

“There used to be,” said Phileas Fogg in an undertone. “Will you cut, please? “he added, passing the cards to Flanagan.

The conversation ceased for the moment, but Andrew Stuart took it up again by saying—

“Used to be! What do you mean by that? Has the world grown smaller by any chance?”

“Of course it has,” replied Ralph. “I agree with Mr. Fogg the world has grown smaller, because you can go round it ten times more quickly than you could a hundred years ago; so the search for a thief will be more rapid.”

“And make the escape of the thief easier also.”

“Your lead, Mr. Stuart,” said Phileas Fogg.

But the incredulous Stuart would not be convinced, and when the “hand” was finished he continued.

“It must be confessed, Mr. Ralph,” he said, “that you have discovered that in one sense the world has grown smaller, because you can go round it in three months.”

“In eighty days,” said Phileas Fogg.

“That is right gentlemen,” added John Sullivan, “for, since the opening of the Great Indian Peninsular Railway between Rothal and Allahabad it can be done in that time. Here is the estimate given by the Morning Chronicle:—

“‘From London to Suez by Mont Cenis
and Brindisi. Rail and Steamer.......... 7 days

From Suez to Bombay. Steamer............... 13

From Bombay to Calcutta. Railway... 3 days

From Calcutta to Hong-Kong. Steamer 13 days

From Hong-Kong to Yokohama. Steamer 6 days

From Yokohama to San Francisco Steamer 22 days

From San Francisco to New York. Railway 7 days

From New York to London. Steamer
and Railway...................................... 9 days.

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

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“Yes, eighty days,” cried Stuart, who unfortunately made a misdeal; “but that does not take into consideration bad weather, contrary winds, shipwreck, or railway accident.”

“All included,” replied Fogg as he continued to play, for this time the discussion did not cease with the deal.

“But suppose Hindoos or Indians take up the rail, stop the trains, pillage the baggage, and scalp the travellers?”

“All included,” returned Fogg quietly. “Two by honours,” he added.

Stuart, who was “pony,” took up the cards and said—

“In theory, no doubt, you are right, Mr. Fogg, but in practice—”

“In practice too, Mr. Stuart.”

“I should like to see you do it.”

“It rests with you. Suppose we go together?”

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Stuart, “but I will bet you four thousand pounds that the thing is impossible in the time.”

“On the contrary, it is quite possible,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“Well, then, do it.”

“Go round the world in eighty days?”

“Yes.”

“I will.”

“When?”

“At once.”

“Ah! that is all nonsense,” exclaimed Stuart, who was beginning to be vexed at his partner’s insistence. “Let us continue the game.”

“You must deal, then,” replied Fogg; “the last is a misdeal.”

Andrew Stuart took up the cards in an uncertain manner, and put them down again.

“Well, then, Mr. Fogg,” he said, “I will bet you four thousand pounds “

“My dear, Stuart,” said Fallentin, “don’t be absurd. He is not serious.”

“When I say I bet,” replied Andrew Stuart, “I am quite serious.”

“All right,” said Mr. Fogg; then, turning to his friends, he said—

“I have twenty thousand pounds deposited with Baring Brothers. I will willingly risk that sum.”

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“Twenty thousand pounds!” exclaimed John Sullivan. “You might lose it all by some unforeseen accident.”

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

“But, Mr. Fogg, this eighty days is but the minimum of time.”

“A minimum well employed is sufficient.”

“But in order not to exceed it you must pass with mathematical certainty from railways to steamers, and from steamers to railways.”

“I will be accurate.”

“After all, this can be but a joke.”

“A true Briton never jokes when he has a bet depending on a subject. I bet you twenty thousand pounds that I will go round the world in eighty days or less—that is to say, in nineteen hundred and twenty hours, or a hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred minutes. Will you take it?”

“Yes,” replied the others after consultation.

“Very well, then,” replied Mr. Fogg; “the Continental Mail starts at 8.45, and we will go by it.”

“This evening!” exclaimed Stuart.

“This evening,” replied Fogg. Then looking at a pocket almanac, he continued, “This is Wednesday the 2nd of October; I shall be in London in this room on Saturday evening the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine p.m.; if not the twenty thousand pounds at Barings’ will be yours. Here is my cheque for that sum.”

A memorandum to this effect was written out and signed on the spot. Phileas Fogg was perfectly cool. He had certainly not bet to win the money, and he had only staked £20,000, half of his fortune, because he knew he might have to spend the other amount in carrying out his almost impossible project. His adversaries were quite excited, not because of the magnitude of the stake, but because they had scruples about betting at all under such conditions.

Seven o’clock struck, and they suggested that Mr. Fogg should go home and prepare for his journey.

“I am always ready,” replied that cool gentleman as he continued to deal. “Diamonds are trumps, Mr. Stuart; it is your lead.”

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Chapter Four

The Journey Begins

Phileas Fogg left the Reform Club at twenty-five minutes past seven. At ten minutes to eight, he opened the door of his house and entered. He went to his bedroom and called loudly, “Passepartout!”

Passepartout was seated in his room pondering on his future with Phileas Fogg, sure that he had found exactly the type of master he liked—a home-loving man, who never travelled.

Passepartout had spent his life travelling. He had enjoyed his various careers as a travelling singer, a circus rider, a gymnast and a fireman in Paris. He had made the correct decsion to become a man-servant in England, but all his employers had been restless and always dashing from one place to another—which did not suit Passepartout at all.

Phileas, however, suited him perfectly. His life was planned and time-tabled, from eight in the morning until midnight. Passepartout had never known such peace. Until this moment.

. . . Passepartout could not believe that his master had called. It was not the right hour.

“Passepartout!” Mr. Fogg called again, without raising his voice much.

Passepartout presented himself.

“We leave in ten minutes for Dover and Calais,” said Phileas.

Passepartout blew out his cheeks and pulled a face. His eyes popped out of his head a little.

“Monsieur is going to leave home?” he asked.

“Yes. We are going to travel all the way round the world.”

Passepartout’s eyes opened wide, his eyebrows shot up, he threw up his hands. “Around the world!” he murmured, and his eyes seemed to revolve in his head.

“In eighty days,” replied Mr. Fogg, “so we have not a moment to lose.”

“But the trunks?” cried Passepartout.

“Not wanted. Only a carpet-bag. In it two woollen shirts, and three pairs of socks. The same for you. We will buy anything else we want on the way. Go.”

Passepartout went, shaking his head. Had his master gone mad? No. It must be a joke.

By eight o’clock, Passepartout rejoined his master, his carpet-bag packed. Mr. Fogg was ready. He took the bag, opened it, and slipped into it a heavy package of those fine bank-notes which are currency in all countries.

“Take this bag, and look after it. There are twenty thousand pounds in it, “he said.

The bag nearly slipped out of Passepartout’s hands, as if the money had been in gold, and weighed very heavily.

At twenty minutes past eight a carriage put them down at the gate of Charing Cross Station. Phileas ordered Passepartout to get two first-class tickets for Paris. The five gentlemen with whom Phileas had laid his bet were waiting.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “I am going, as you see. The various stamps put upon my passport will help you check my journey, and you will see me again in exactly eighty days. Saturday, December 21st, at a quarter before nine p.m., in the saloon of the Reform Club. Until then, gentlemen—”

At eighty forty-five the whistle sounded, and the train started. A fine rain was falling. Phileas leaned back in his corner and did not speak. Passepartout hugged the carpet-bag. Suddenly he gave a cry of despair.

“What is the matter?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“Parbleu! I forgot to turn off the gas burner in my room.”

“Very well,” replied Mr. Fogg coldly, it will burn for eighty days at your expense!”

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Chapter Five

The Detective

News of Phileas Fogg’s wager reached the papers. A great deal was written about his “tour of the world” and everyone took sides for or against him. Most people declared that he must be mad, as the possibility of accidents or bad weather, leading to a delay of even one day, was so great that he was almost certain to ruin himself.

His photograph was published in the London Illustrated News, where it attracted the notice of certain members of the police at Scotland Yard, and was carefully examined. It matched perfectly the description of the distinguished and well-dressed gentleman who had been seen in the paying room of the bank. The police discovered how mysterious Phileas Fogg’s life had been; his isolation and his sudden departure. It became clear that this person, under the pretext of a journey round the world, supported by a senseless bet, had no other aim than to mislead the agents of the English police. The newspapers published these suspicions; the honourable gentleman disappeared to make room for the bank robber.

The telegraph wires buzzed and hummed as the description was sent out to many places. One of these places was Suez, where, on Wednesday, October 9th, there was expected at eleven a.m., the steamer Mongolia, which made regular trips from Brindisi to Bombay by the Suez Canal.

On the wharf at Suez, awaiting the arrival of the ship, was a small, spare man with the swift movements and sharp features of a bird. His name was Fix, and he was a detective set to watch all travellers taking the Suez route. Two days before, he had received from the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police a description of the supposed bank-robber.

Eleven o’clock was striking when the ship came to anchor by the wharf. In a little while, many of the passengers began coming ashore in boats which had gone out to hail the ship.

Fix was studying all who landed, when one of them approached him and asked for the office of the English consular agent. As he spoke, he held out a passport. Fix took it, and read the description on it. He gave a start. His mouth went tight under the beaked nose. The description matched the one he had received from London.

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“This passport isn’t yours,” he said to the passenger.

“No,” replied Passepartout. “It is my master’s. He is staying on board.”

“He must come ashore,” said the detective firmly, “to establish his identity at the Consul’s office. It is essential.”

“And where is the office?”

“There at the corner of the square,” replied the detective, pointing out a house two hundred paces off.

“Then I will tell my master. Thank you for your help.”

Passepartout bowed to Fix, and returned aboard the steamer.

The detective left the wharf and turned quickly towards the Consul’s office. Within two or three minutes, he had told the Consul of his suspicions.

“And he is coming to have his passport stamped?” asked the Consul.

“Yes. I hope you will refuse to do so.”

“I have no right to do that, if all is in order.”

“But I must delay this man until I have received a warrant of arrest from London.”

“Mr. Fix, that is your business,” replied the Consul. “I have nothing to do with arrests.”

Soon Phileas and Passepartout arrived. Phileas presented his passport, and asked the Consul to stamp it. The Consul examined the passport carefully, while Fix, from a corner of the room, devoured the stranger with his eyes.

“You are Phileas Fogg,” asked the Consul, “and you come from London?”

“Yes.”

“And you are going—?”

“To Bombay. I wish, however, to prove by your stamp that I have visited Suez.”

“Very well, sir.”

The Consul signed and dated the passport. Mr. Fogg settled the fee, bowed, and went out, followed by his servant.

“He looks to me, Mr Fix,” said the Consul, “like a perfectly honest man.”

“Possibly,” replied Fix coldly. “He also resembles, feature for feature, the robber whose description I have received.”

“You know that descriptions may be misleading.”

“I am sure of this one,” replied Fix. “And he shall not escape me!” and he marched out of the office.

In the meantime, Mr. Fogg had gone back to the wharf. There he gave some orders to his servant, then got into a boat and returned to the ship, leaving Passepartout behind. Fix approached him.

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“Well, my friend,” he said, “are you enjoying your trip?”

“Yes indeed, monsieur,” replied Passepartout, “but we go so quickly that I have no time to see anything. Just now I wish to buy some articles, but I must take care not to miss the steamer.”

“You have time enough,” replied Fix. “It is only noon!”

Passepartout pulled out his large watch.

“Noon? Pshaw! It is eight minutes to ten!”

“Your watch is slow,” replied Fix.

“My watch is never slow! A family watch that has come down from my great-grandfather!”

“I think I know what is wrong,” replied Fix. “You have kept London time, which is about two hours slower than Suez. You must be careful to set your watch at noon in each country.”

“What! I, touch my watch!” cried Passepartout. “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 he put his watch back into his fob with a magnificent gesture.

As they went along, Passepartout talked eagerly to this good-hearted stranger and told the whole story of this master’s bet. The detective’s suspicions were heightened. This large sum carried away, this haste to arrive in distant countries! He kept the Frenchman talking; learned that he did not know his master well; that he lived alone in London, was a mysterious man, and all the rest of it.

“The deuce!” said Passepartout of a sudden. “There is one thing that bothers me it is my burner.”

“What burner?”

“My gas-burner, which I forgot to turn off, and which is burning at my expense.”

Fix was no longer listening. They had reached the shops, and he left the Frenchman there to make his purchases. He returned in great haste to the telegraph office, and sent off a dispatch in the following words:

“SUEZ TO LONDON

“Rowan, Commissioner of Police, Central Office, Scotland Yard: I have traced the bank robber, Phileas Fogg. Send warrant of arrest at once to Bombay.

“FIX, Detective.”

A half-hour later, Fix, with his light baggage in his hand, and well supplied with money, went on board the Mongolia. Soon afterwards the steamer was threading its way through the Red Sea, bound for Aden and Bombay.

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Chapter Six

The End of the Line

The distance between Suez and Aden is exactly thirteen hundred and ten miles. The Mongolia, whose engineer had been promised a splendid reward by Phileas Fogg if the ship reached Bombay ahead of time, had her fires well kept up, and sped along rapidly.

Mr. Fogg had in his cabin a memorandum-book, arranged in columns, which indicated, from the 2nd of October to the 21st of December—the month, the day of the week, and the time-tabled and actual arrivals at each principal point, which allowed him to figure the gain made or the loss experienced at each place on the route. He knew always whether he was ahead of time or behind.

As for Passepartout, on the day after leaving Suez, he was pleased to meet on deck the man who had been so much help to him at Suez.

“Delighted to meet you again, Monsieur—?” - “Fix.”

“Are you going to Bombay, too?”

“Yes,” replied Fix. “I am an agent of the Peninsular Company.”

After this meeting, Passepartout and the detective talked often together.

In the meantime, the steamer positively sped along. On the evening of the 14th, she put into the harbour at Aden. There she was to lay in coal, and would be four hours doing it, but had gained fifteen hours on the trip down the Red Sea.

Mr. Fogg and his servant landed, to have Fogg’s passport stamped. Fix followed them without being noticed, until they returned on board.

At six that evening the Mongolia steamed out into the Indian Ocean. She had one hundred and sixty-eight hours to cover the distance between Aden and Bombay. All was favourable; the wind kept in the north-west, and the sails came to the aid of the steam.

On Sunday, the 20th of October, towards noon, they sighted the Indian coast. The steamer entered the harbour, and at half-past four she put in at the wharves of Bombay. She was not, in fact, due there until October 22nd. This was a gain of two days, since his departure from London, and Phileas Fogg noted it down in his memorandum-book.

So far, so good. Now for the journey across India by the newly-opened railway, which put Bombay at only three days from Calcutta.

The train left at eight o’clock that night. Mr. Fogg gave his servant directions for some purchases, warned him to be at the station before eight, and then turned his steps towards the passport office. After that, he went to the station and there had dinner served.

Detective Fix had also landed from the Mongolia and
hurried to the office of the Commissioner of Police in Bombay. He made himself known; asked if a warrant of arrest had arrived from London. It had not.

While this was going on, Passepartout was wandering through the streets of Bombay. He was passing the magnificent Hindu temple on Malebar Hill, when he took it into his head to go inside. He was ignorant of two things: that entrance to certain Hindu temples is forbidden, and that the believers themselves cannot enter without leaving their shoes at the door. The British Government in India punishes severely all who violate these rules.

Passepartout went in, like a simple traveller, and was admiring the ornamentation when he was suddenly seized and thrown down upon the floor. Three priests, with furious looks, rushed upon him, tore off his shoes and stockings, and started to beat him, uttering savage cries. The Frenchman, vigorous and agile, rose again quickly; felled two of his attackers, and rushed from the temple. By mingling with the crowd, he soon out-distanced the third Hindu, who had followed him.

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At five minutes to eight, breathless, hatless, and barefoot, he came to the station. Fix, who had gone there to keep an eye on Phileas, was standing close by in a dark place, and heard the Frenchman tell his adventure in a few words to his master.

“I hope it won’t happen to you again,” was all Phileas said, and then the two took their seats in the train.

“I’ll stay here,” Fix said to himself, in great satisfaction. “A crime committed upon Indian soil! I have my man!” A moment or two later, the locomotive gave a loud whistle, and the train disappeared into the darkness.

Passepartout was in the same compartment as his master. A third traveller sat in the opposite corner, one of the acquaintances made by Mr. Fogg during the trip from Suez to Bombay: a brigadier-general, Sir Francis Cromarty, who was rejoining his troops at Benares. The General knew all about Phileas’ bet, and his plan for a tour of the world. Now Phileas told him of Passepartout’s adventure in the Hindu temple, while Passepartout slept soundly, his feet wrapped up in his cloak.

“The British Government frowns upon this kind of trespass,” Sir Francis said. “It insists, and rightly, that the religious customs of the Hindus should be respected. If your servant had been taken—”

“He would have been sentenced and punished,” said Mr. Fogg. “Fortunately, he escaped.”

They let the matter drop, and both were soon asleep. All through the night the train sped on its way, over vast plains and through immense stretches of jungle.

Just after noon, next day, it stopped at Burhampoor, and Passepartout was able to buy a pair of ornamented slippers to cover his bare feet. Now that they were hurrying across India, his mind had undergone a change. All at once, he was very much on his master’s side, and disturbed at the thought of delays, the possible accidents which might occur upon the route. He wanted Phileas to win his bet, and trembled at the thought that he might have ruined everything the evening before by his unpardonable foolishness. He cursed the stopping of the train, and worried about the passing of the time.

The next day, the 22nd of October, Passepartout, having looked at his watch, replied to a question of Sir Francis Cromarty’s that it was three o’clock in the morning. His watch, still regulated by the meridian of Greenwich, was, in fact, four hours slow. Sir Francis tried to make him understand that he ought to regulate his watch on each new meridian; that since he was all the time moving towards the east, in the face of the sun, the days were shorter by as many times four minutes as he had crossed degrees. It was useless. Passepartout kept his watch at London Time.

At eight o’clock in the morning, the train stopped on the edge of a big clearing, in which were some bungalows and workmen’s huts. The conductor passed along the train calling out: “All passengers will get out here!”

Mr. Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty, who was obviously puzzled by this stop in the middle of a forest. Passepartout jumped down on to the track, vanished for a minute or two, and returned, crying: “Monsieur, no more railway!”

“What do you mean?” asked Sir Francis.

“I mean that the train goes no farther. The line has come to an end!”

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Chapter Seven

A Ride on an Elephant

Sir Francis puffed and blew out his cheeks, and got down from the car in a very agitated state. Phileas Fogg, in no hurry, followed him.

“Where are we?” Sir Francis asked the conductor.

“At the village of Kholby.”

“We stop here?”

“We must. The railway is not finished. There is still a section of fifty miles to build between this point and Allahabad, where the track begins again.”

“But you give tickets from Bombay to Calcutta,” exploded the indignant General.

“Of course,” replied the conductor, “But travellers know very well that they must make their own way from Kholby to Allahabad.”

“Sir Francis,” said Mr. Fogg simply, “let us look for some means of getting to Allahabad.”

“Mr. Fogg, this delay will ruin you—”

“Not at all. I have gained two days which I can afford to lose. A steamer leaves Calcutta for Hong-Kong at noon on the 25th. This is only the 23rd, and we shall reach Calcutta in time.”

Mr. Fogg, Sir Francis, and Passepartout agreed to hunt separately through the village for a means of transport. Phileas and the General returned without having found anything faster than broken-down ox-carts.

Passepartout, who had just come up, said, “Monsieur, I believe I have found a means of conveyance—an elephant, in fact, monsieur, belonging to an Indian who lives close by.”

They went and saw the elephant, which his owner called Kiouni, and Phileas Fogg determined to employ him. When, however, he asked the Indian if he would hire him his elephant the man flatly refused. Fogg offered ten pounds an hour. Refused. Twenty pounds. Still refused. Forty pounds. Refused again. The Indian would not be tempted. Phileas Fogg then offered to buy the animal for one thousand pounds. The Indian would not sell!

Sir Francis begged Phileas to reflect. Mr. Fogg replied that a bet of twenty thousand pounds was at stake, that this elephant was necessary to him, and that, should he pay twenty times his value, he meant to have him!

He went again for the Indian, whose small eyes lit up with greed, showing that it was only a question of price. Phileas offered twelve hundred, fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, and finally two thousand pounds. Sir Francis had gone purple in the face, and Passepartout had turned pale. The Indian accepted two thousand.

All that remained was to find a guide. A young Parsee, with an intelligent face, offered his services. Mr. Fogg accepted him, and promised him a large reward to sharpen his wits. The elephant was covered with a saddlecloth, and a howdah was strapped to each flank.

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Phileas paid the Indian in bank-notes taken from the famous carpet-bag, then offered to convey Sir Francis to Allahabad. The General accepted; one more passenger was not likely to tire this enormous animal. Some provisions were bought; Sir Francis took his seat in one howdah, Phileas in the other. Passepartout got astride the animal, between his master and the General. The Parsee perched upon the elephant’s neck, and off they went at a rough trot.

For some hours they moved through jungle country, then came out of the forest to cross a huge plain, bristling with scanty shrubs, and strewn with large boulders.

At two o’clock, when they were some twelve miles from Allahabad, they moved into jungle again. After some time the elephant, showing signs of uneasiness, came to a halt.

“What is the matter?” asked Sir Francis.

“I do not know,” replied the Parsee, listening to a confused murmur which they now heard.

In a minute or two the noise became recognizable as the sound of human voices and brass instruments. The Parsee jumped down, fastened the elephant to a tree, and plunged into the undergrowth. He scurried back a few minutes later.

“A Brahmin procession is coming this way!” he cried excitedly. “It will be better if we are not seen!”

He unfastened the elephant and led him into a thicket, telling the others not to descend.

The noise grew closer and louder, a weird chanting mingled with the crash and clash of drums and cymbals. The head of the procession appeared, on a path, only fifty yards away.

It was led by priests in long robes. They were surrounded by men, women, and children, chanting a kind of dirge. Behind them, on a cart drawn by zebus, was a hideous statue; it had four arms, haggard eyes, tangled hair, and a long tongue that hung out between brilliantly coloured lips. Around its neck hung a collar of skulls; around its waist a girdle of human hands.

Behind the cart came some Brahmins in rich costumes, dragging a woman who seemed hardly able to stand. She was young, light of skin, and strikingly beautiful. A gold-embroidered tunic fell from her throat to her knees.

Behind her were guards, armed with swords and long pistols, four of them carrying upon their shoulders a corpse upon a stretcher. The body was that of an old man, dressed in the rich garments of a rajah. He was followed by musicians and a rear-guard of fanatics, whose cries often drowned the noise of the instruments.

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Sir Francis looked at all this sadly. He turned to the guide, and said: “A suttee?”

The Parsee nodded, and put a finger to his lips. The procession wound on its way and disappeared among the trees. Its noise faded.

“What,” asked Phileas Fogg, “is a suttee?”

“It is the custom in certain parts of India,” replied Sir Francis, “to burn a widow on the funeral pyre of her husband. That young woman you have just seen will be burned tomorrow with the body they were carrying on the stretcher.”

“How do these barbarous customs still exist in India?” asked Phileas. “Why have the British not stamped them out?”

“We have—in many parts of India,” replied Sir Francis, “but unfortunately we do not have influence over this territory of Bundelcund.”

“That unfortunate woman,” murmured Passepartout. “Burned alive!”

“Yes,” replied the General grimly, “burned! If she were not, she would be treated like an outcast. Her relatives would shave her head, refuse to feed her, and treat her like some unclean creature. These poor women are often driven to choose death because they know, only too well, what would be done to them if they didn’t!”

“This lady did not choose to die,” said the Parsee, shaking his head. “The priests have drugged her.”

“Where are they taking her?”

“To the temple of Pillaji, two miles from here. There she will pass the night, waiting for the sacrifice.”

“And this will take place?”

“At first light.”

There was a long silence. The guide turned away and led the elephant from the thicket. Mr. Fogg called to him to wait.

“Perhaps we could save this woman.”

“Save her, Mr. Fogg!” cried Sir Francis.

“I still have twelve hours to spare. I can devote them to her.”

“Why, you are a man of heart!” said Sir Francis, astonished.

“Sometimes,” replied Phileas Fogg simply. “When I have time.”

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Chapter Eight

The Rescue

Passepartout and Sir Francis were willing to risk the rescue, but what of their guide? Would he not side with the Indians? Sir Francis put the question to him frankly.

“Sir,” replied the guide, “I am a Parsee, and that woman is a Parsee. Make use of me, please. But I must tell you that we risk not only our lives, but horrible punishments if we are taken.”

“Indeed,” said Phileas calmly, “then we must try not to be taken. We had best wait for darkness before we act.”

The guide then told them what he knew of the victim. She was the daughter of a rich merchant of Bombay. Her name was Aouda, and she had been given an English education. Left an orphan, she had been married against her will to the old Rajah of Bundelcund. Three months later she was a widow. Knowing the fate that waited her, she fled, but was caught, and had been forced by the Rajah’s relatives to make this sacrifice, from which it seemed, she could not escape.

“She shall escape,” murmured Phileas, and it was decided that they should turn the elephant towards the temple of Pillaji, and wait close by until the coming of night.

They halted, half an hour later, under a thick clump of trees, five hundred yards from the temple. They could hear the yellings of the fanatics. Their guide knew the lay-out of the temple, but as yet they had made no plan.

They ate a rough meal, and waited. When night came down, they followed their guide, creeping under the branches, until they reached the bank of a small river. There, by the light of torches set in iron stands, they saw a great pile of wood; the funeral pyre, made of costly sandal wood, and saturated with perfumed oil. On its upper part lay the embalmed body of the Rajah. A hundred paces from this pile rose the temple, showing pale and white above the trees.

They approached the temple and stopped at the edge of a clearing, lit up by torches. The ground was covered with groups of sleepers; the soldiers of the Rajah were watching at the temple doors, and pacing up and down with drawn swords. The place was surrounded by guards and sleepers. It was clearly impossible for any stranger to enter the place unseen.

“What can we do but leave?” asked the General in a low voice.

“Wait,” said Phileas Fogg curtly.

“But what hope is there?”

“The chance which escapes us now may offer itself at the last moment.”

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Passepartout was perched upon the lower branches of a tree. As he sat there, an idea entered his head. He had been haunted by the picture of the old Rajah, lying there, cold and dead, upon the funeral pyre. He could not drive it from his mind, and then, an idea came to him in a flash. He took a deep breath. It was a chance—perhaps the only one. He thought no more, but slid down, with the ease of a snake, along the branch to the ground and glided away among the trees.

The hours passed. A first faint flush of light touched the tree-tops. A drum began to beat. The groups wakened up; chants and cries burst out anew. The hour had come in which the helpless victim was to die.

The doors of the temple were opened wide. In the light of torches, the watchers could see the victim, whom two priests were dragging to the outside. It seemed to them that the unfortunate woman was trying to escape from her executioners. Sir Francis’s heart throbbed violently. Phileas was clutching an open pocket-knife, his only weapon, in his right hand.

Then the young woman seemed to fall back into her drugged stupor, moving mechanically between the fakirs, who escorted her with their wild cries.

Phileas and his companions followed the chanting crowd. They came to the edge of the river and stopped in full view of the funeral pyre. Already the victim was stretched out near her husband’s corpse, still and quiet, seemingly unconscious, lost in a drug-induced sleep.

The priests were coming down from the pyre. A torch was brought. The wood at the foot of the pile took fire. Phileas gave a little cry, and took a step forward, but was seized and held back. He turned towards the pyre, then stood, rooted to the ground—

The whole scene had suddenly changed. On top of the funeral pile, the old Rajah had stood upright, like a phantom. He bent and took the young woman in his arms, and descended from the pile in the midst of clouds of smoke, which gave him a ghostly appearance.

A great wail passed over the crowd, who pressed their faces to the ground, moaning, not daring to lift their eyes to look at such a wondrous thing!

Before the startled gaze of Phileas and his companions, the old Rajah came down to the foot of the pile, and began to walk towards them, his burden in his arms. They stood, stupefied, until he was only a few paces from them.

He spoke.

“Help me to carry her,” he said, “and let us get away!”

The voice was that of Passepartout! It was he who had slipped up to the pile in the darkness, and in the midst of the thick smoke! It was Passepartout, who had escaped in the midst of the general fright.

They slipped away into the woods and clambered on to the kneeling elephant. The Parsee brought him to his feet, and set him going at a rapid trot. There were shouts and cries behind them, telling them that the trick had been discovered. The guards rushed after them, shooting wildly, but they could not match the pace of the eager elephant.

In a few moments, they were out of range of bullets, and went, swaying and plunging, along the forest track.

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Chapter Nine

The Trial

It was broad daylight when the Parsee brought the elephant to a stop an hour later.

Sir Francis grasped Passepartout’s hand; his master said to him, “Well done!” which in that gentleman’s mouth was high praise, indeed. As for the young woman, Aouda, she knew nothing of what had passed. Wrapped in travelling cloaks, she was still slumped, unconscious, in one of the howdahs.

Sir Francis remarked to Phileas that her troubles were not yet over. If she stayed in India, she would inevitably fall again into the hands of her executioners, who would seek to recapture her. She would only be safe, if she was taken out of the country.

After a bite of food, they set off once more, and, towards ten o’clock, they entered Allahabad and made their way to the station. The interrupted railway line started again here, and trains covered the distance to Calcutta in less than a day and a night. Phileas ought then to arrive in time to catch the steamer which left at noon on the next day, October 25th, for Hong Kong.

They laid Aouda on a bench in the waiting-room of the station, and Passepartout was sent off to buy her robes, shawls, and slippers. By the time he returned, Aouda was beginning to stir, and look about her with most beautiful dark eyes. The train was about to leave. Between them, they helped her to it, and sat her in a car.

The Parsee was waiting—and so was the elephant. Mr. Fogg handed to the guide the agreed sum and then said: “Do you wish to own this elephant? If so, it is yours.”

The Parsee’s eyes sparkled. “You are giving me a fortune!” he cried.

“It is not enough for all that you have done for us,” Phileas replied, and gravely shook the hand of his Indian friend.

Five minutes later the train was speeding towards Benares, eighty miles from Allahabad.

During this journey the young woman completely revived. Imagine her astonishment to find herself on this railway, in this compartment, in the midst of travellers quite unknown to her!

Sir Francis calmed her, and told her the whole story, and, when he had done, Aouda thanked her deliverers, but it was her beautiful eyes, rather than her lips, that told them of her gratitude. Then, her thoughts carrying her back to the scenes of the suttee, she shuddered, knowing that India still held many dangers for her. Guessing what was in her mind, Phileas offered to take her to Hong-Kong, where she could stay until this affair had died out. She accepted the offer gratefully. She had a relative who was one of the principal merchants of that city, and who would take good care of her.

The train reached Benares soon after noon. This was where Sir Francis had to leave them. He shook hands with Phileas and Passepartout; was kissed by Aouda, which made his face go very red; then they parted.

Leaving Benares, the railway followed the Valley of the Ganges. At seven a.m. they drew in to Calcutta. The Hong-Kong steamer did not weigh anchor until noon. Phileas had five hours before him. Twenty-three days after leaving London, he was neither behind nor ahead of time.

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As they were moving towards the station exit, a policeman stepped in front of them.

“Mr. Phileas Fogg?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Is this man your servant?”

“Yes.”

“You will both be so kind as to follow me.”

Phileas showed no sign of surprise. Passepartout wanted to argue the matter, but Phileas made him a sign to obey.

“May the young lady come with us?” he asked.

“She may,” replied the policeman.

He led them to a palkighari, a four-wheeled vehicle drawn by two horses. They started off. No one spoke during the twenty minutes’ ride. They entered the European quarter, and stopped before a brick building. The policeman left them in a room with grated windows.

“At half-past eight,” he said, “you will appear before Judge Obadiah.”

At half-past eight the policeman reappeared, and led them into a court-room. They were told to sit upon a bench in front of the seats reserved for the magistrate and his clerk. This magistrate, Judge Obadiah, entered almost immediately. He was a large, fat man. He took down a wig hung on a nail and hastily put it on his head.

“The first case,” he said.

“Phileas Fogg?” asked the clerk.

“I am here,” replied Phileas.

“Passepartout?”

“Present! “replied Passepartout.

A door was opened; three Hindu priests were led in. Passepartout gave a start. His eyes opened wide. He did a bit of tongue-clicking.

“Parbleu!” he said. “These are the ones who stole my shoes!”

The clerk read, in a loud voice, a charge against Mr. Fogg and his servant, who were accused of having violated a sacred place.

“And as a proof here are the desecrator’s shoes,” he added, putting a pair on his desk.

“My shoes!” cried Passepartout.

At this a gleam of triumph showed in the pale eyes of Detective Fix, who was seated, unnoticed, among the crowd of European and Indian spectators. It was, of course, the detective who had sought out the priests of Malebar Hill and promised them large damages, knowing very well that the British Government was most severe upon this kind of trespass. Because of the time that had been spent in rescuing Aouda, Fix and the Hindus had reached Calcutta before Phileas and his servant, whom the authorities had been warned by telegraph to arrest as they got out of the train.

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The judge had heard Passepartout’s words. “The facts are admitted?” he asked.

“Admitted,” replied Mr. Fogg coldly.

“Inasmuch,” continued the judge, “as the English law intends to protect equally all the religions of the people of India, I sentence the man Passepartout to fifteen days’ imprisonment and a fine of three hundred pounds! And,” went on the judge,” since the master should be held responsible for the acts of his servant, I sentence Phileas Fogg to eight days’ imprisonment, and a fine of one hundred and fifty pounds. Call the next case!”

Fix smiled with satisfaction. Eight days! More than enough time for his warrant to arrive!

Passepartout was crushed. The sentence would ruin his master!

Mr. Fogg did not even knit his eyebrows. He rose and said: “I offer bail.”

“It is your right,” replied the judge. “The bail is fixed at one thousand pounds for each of you.”

“I will pay it,” said Phileas Fogg, to the horror of Mr. Fix.

And he took from the carpet-bag, which Passepartout carried, a bundle of bank-notes, which he placed on the clerk’s desk.

“Very well,” said the judge, “you are free under bail.”

“Let us go, then,” said Phileas.

“But they should at least return my shoes,” cried Passepartout angrily.

They returned him his shoes.

“Parbleu! these cost a lot,” he murmured; “more than a thousand pounds each! And they pinch my toes, too!”

Shaking his head in disapproval, he followed Mr. Fogg and Aouda from the building. Fix went after them to see what they would do.

Mr. Fogg and his friends took a carriage; Fix called another, which followed behind. Mr. Fogg’s carriage went directly to one of the wharves and stopped there.

Half a mile out in the harbour the steam-ship Rangoon was anchored, her sailing flag hoisted to the top of the mast. Eleven o’clock struck. Mr. Fogg was one hour ahead. Fix, to his chagrin, saw him get out of the carriage, and embark in a boat with Aouda and Passepartout.

The detective snapped an order to his own driver, who turned the carriage and sped back along the wharf. Forty minutes later, having left instructions for the warrant to be forwarded to him at Hong-Kong, he succeeded in getting on board the Rangoon without being seen by Passepartout. All his hopes were now concentrated on Hong-Kong. That city was still British soil, but the last he would find on the road. Beyond China and Japan, America would offer Mr. Fogg a certain refuge. The arrest of the robber must be made in Hong-Kong!

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Chapter Ten

The Opi

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 693