Around the World in 100 Days (20 page)

When the thief had disappeared into the darkness, the turbaned man turned and bowed slightly. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.” His accent, with its rolled
r
's and its odd lack of inflection, was quite familiar to Harry; Aouda Fogg's few Indian friends sounded much the same.

“You're welcome. We should get moving, in case he returns with reinforcements.”

The man seemed in no hurry. He donned his coat in a leisurely fashion, then picked up his satchel. “Would you happen to know where I might find inexpensive lodgings?”

“I'm sorry; I've been here only a few hours myself.” Harry laughed. “If I knew the city, I'd have known to avoid this neighborhood.” They headed downhill, toward the harbor. “You didn't seem particularly afraid back there,” said Harry.

“No. Though I truly am grateful to you, I could have defended myself.”

“If you don't mind my asking, how exactly would you have done that?”

“I am a student of
kalarippayattu
.”

“Who?”

“It is not a person. It is a traditional Indian martial art.”

“The unusual stance you took is part of it, then?”

“It is called the
asvavadivu
—also known, more crudely, as the horse posture.”

“You could actually have disarmed the thief?”

“And disabled him if necessary. Thanks to you, it was not necessary. You have an excellent throwing arm. Do you by any chance play cricket?”

“I used to do, at Eton. And you?”

“At the Institute of Mechanical and Electrical Engineering. We did not have much of a team, but as good as one might expect from students of the sciences.”

They launched into a spirited discussion of various cricket teams and players and, before they knew it, had reached the well-lighted area of wharves and warehouses. The stranger gazed at Harry with frank curiosity. “I assumed from your speech that you were English. I see now that you are not.”

“My mother is from India.”

“But she has raised you to be a proper British gentleman.”

“She's tried. I'm not certain it's worked out.”

The man laughed. “Fortunately for me. Few British gentlemen would have risked their own lives to save that of a foreigner. It would be gentlemanly of us, I suppose, to introduce ourselves. My name is Dhiren Ramesh.”

He was a good-looking, athletic fellow of perhaps thirty. Though his well-tailored gray suit and cream-colored waistcoat were like those worn by any professional man in New York or London, no one would have mistaken him for an Englishman or an American. And the red turban he wore made it clear that he did not wish to be mistaken for one.

“I have been studying America's railroads,” he said, “and I am now on my way to Russia to help plan a railway across Siberia.” He raised his leather satchel. “Had the thief taken this, he would have been quite disappointed. It contains mainly sketches and notes and mathematical calculations.”

They shook hands; the man's grip was strong, almost painful. “Harry Fogg. I'm traveling around the world in a motorcar.”

Ramesh smiled broadly. “It is a great pleasure to meet you. I have been following your progress in the newspapers. How is your vehicle holding up?”

Harry stopped before the warehouse. “See for yourself, if you like.”

“I would like that very much, but it is late. Another day, perhaps. Will you be in San Francisco long?”

“Only two more days, I hope. We plan to sail on Tuesday, on the
Belgic
.”

“In that case, there will be many opportunities for me to see your motorcar. I have a cabin on the
Belgic
as well.”

 

Early on Monday, Harry and Elizabeth returned to the Western Union office. When she emerged, the look on her face told Harry that she had heard no word from the
Daily Graphic
.

“I don't understand it. They seemed to like my stories. Why would they cut me off this way?” Her blue eyes threatened to fill with tears. She swallowed hard, then took a deep, slightly shaky breath. “Well. If I don't hear from them soon, you may have to continue without me.”

Harry scratched his head. “See here, Elizabeth; I know you're quite capable of taking care of yourself and all that, but we can't just
leave
you here.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Thank you, but I've caused you enough delays already; I can't let you risk losing your wager on my account. If necessary, I can find work and earn the money for my passage home.”

“No,” said Harry. “No. I'll find some way out of this, I promise you.”

That afternoon, both the harbormaster and Drummond, the railroad man, turned up to hold Harry to his promise. After showing them how handily the
Flash
climbed San Francisco's steep grades, he gave Drummond a turn at the wheel. The man would have run them into a stack of spice crates had Harry not yanked on the hand brake just in time. Despite the near-disaster, Drummond clearly found the experience exhilarating. “I must get myself one of these machines!” he boomed.

Around four Johnny returned from escorting Elizabeth to the telegraph office; the
Daily Graphic
was still ignoring her. “We can't leave her,” Johnny said. “Maybe Hardiman would pay her way.”

“She's far too proud to ask him.” Harry patted his friend's shoulder reassuringly. “But don't worry, lad. I've been mulling it over, and I think I've come up with a plan to raise the money for her and for us.”

“I knew you would. What's the plan?”

“I'll tell you later,” said Harry, “once I've seen whether or not it works.” He hurried away, leaving Johnny to guard the
Flash
again. Johnny had already made every conceivable adjustment and repair to the motorcar, including replacing the broken windscreen at last. All he could do was sit and stare into space.

After an hour or so, Elizabeth arrived bearing food and drink and a copy of
Under Two Flags
. “I thought you might be bored, so I brought you something to read.”

Johnny pulled his cap down over his ears. “Thanks,” he murmured. He set the book and the food aside and pretended to be cleaning the brass housing of the acetylene lamps.

Elizabeth realized for the first time that, despite all his cleverness, Johnny might not know his letters. “If you like,” she said softly, “I could read aloud while you have your supper.” When he didn't reply, she retrieved the book and sat on a packing crate. “I'll have to turn away from you, I'm afraid, in order to catch the light from the window. Will you be able to hear me all right?”

“Yes,” said Johnny, gratefully.

Elizabeth was a fine reader, dramatic and subtle by turns, and surprisingly adept at mimicking men's voices. As Johnny listened, he lost all awareness of his actual surroundings and drifted into the world created by the words. As fond as he was of Harry, when his friend returned and broke the spell, Johnny almost wished he had stayed away awhile longer.

Harry was brandishing several pieces of paper. “I've got them!” he announced triumphantly.

Elizabeth looked up from the book, a bit put out at being interrupted. “I assume you mean the steamship tickets.”

“Yes!” He waved one of the documents in front of Johnny's face. “And here I have a bill of lading for the
Flash
!”

“Wonderful,” said Elizabeth.

Harry plunked down on the packing crate next to her. “You might show a bit more enthusiasm. After all ...” He dangled another of the papers before her nose. “I've a ticket for you as well.”

Elizabeth's well-formed mouth fell open. “How on earth did you manage
that
?”

Harry's grin faded just a little. “Never mind how I managed it. The important thing is, we sail for Yokohama in the morning!”

TWENTY-FIVE
In which

T
hey were not forced to travel Chinese steerage, after all. Harry had actually taken two cabins in second class—one for himself and Johnny, and another for Elizabeth. Charles, of course, made his own arrangements; to Harry's surprise, the usually fussy fellow contented himself with a “cramped and dreary” second-class cabin as well.

As Harry and Elizabeth stood at the rail watching San Francisco disappear behind its sulfurous haze, Harry said, “When do we reach Yokohama?”

Elizabeth consulted her schedule. “They don't give a specific date. The steward says the crossing can take anywhere from a fortnight to sixteen days, depending upon the weather.”

“And of course we lose a day when we cross the date line,” said Harry.

“Still, we'll be in Shanghai by the end of September. That leaves us a month and a half to cross Asia and Europe.”

“Right,” said Harry cheerfully. “More than enough time.”

Elizabeth stared silently at the water for a minute or two. “You really needn't have paid for my passage, you know.”

“Is that your way of saying thank you?”

“I'm grateful, Harry, truly I am. But it must have used up every bit of money you had. How will you purchase supplies and fuel for the rest of the trip?”

“Don't worry about it, all right? I have plenty of money.”

“I don't see how, after—Oh. I think I understand. You wired your father. That's it, isn't it?” Harry didn't reply. She laid a hand on his arm. “That must have been a bitter pill to swallow. I'm sorry. When I signed on, I promised I wouldn't cause you any trouble, and it's all I've done.”

“Oh, I don't know. On the whole, I'd say you've been more of an asset than a liability.”

She made a disparaging sound. “Oh, yes. I crashed the car into a boulder; I made you miss the steamer for Hong Kong ...”

“You also helped us outrun a prairie fire,” he said, “and you looked after me when I was ill. Not to mention putting Charles in his place a time or two.” This elicited a laugh from Elizabeth. “But the best thing you've done,” Harry went on, more seriously, “is to treat Johnny with kindness and consideration. He's had precious little of that in his life.”

For once, Elizabeth seemed at a loss for words. She put her chin in her hands and gazed at the froth churned up by the steamship's propellers. Harry was lost in thought, too. Now that he had taken care of the money problem, his main concern was how he would keep himself from going mad during the interminable two weeks that lay ahead.

The evenings went by quickly enough. Harry and Charles occupied themselves with games of bezique or écarté. Sometimes Elizabeth joined them for a few hands of whist; other evenings she sat on deck reading to Johnny, whom she actually coaxed out of his cabin and into a deck chair.

The days were more trying. Whatever the weather, Harry strode up and down the deck like a dog on a treadmill or stood in the bow, staring out over the ocean as if hoping that Yokohama might appear on the horizon a week or two ahead of schedule. This was where Dhiren Ramesh found him. “Mr. Fogg. It is a pleasure to see you. I hoped we might meet again, but I was not certain in which class you would be traveling.”

The genuine warmth of the man's greeting took Harry by surprise. The fellows at Eton and at the Reform Club could put on a show of well-met-old-chap heartiness, but it often felt forced, superficial; you were left wondering whether they truly were glad to see you or were just going through the motions expected of a gentleman. With Ramesh, there was no doubt. It was both refreshing and a bit disconcerting.

They resumed their conversation as if they had spoken a few hours earlier, and not a few days ago. When Harry expressed his impatience, Ramesh smiled. “I believe I have just the remedy for that. We shall organize a cricket match.”

There were enough enthusiastic Englishmen aboard, plus a couple of Indian men, to make up two sides. Ramesh had a bat and ball in his luggage; folded-up deck chairs served as their wickets.

They quickly discovered one major drawback of playing aboard a ship: There was nothing to stop the ball from flying into the ocean. They substituted apples from the bowls in the dining room.

Harry was accustomed to playing all out; his first time up, he struck the ball so hard it exploded into applesauce. “Sorry! I suppose that should count as an out.” After that, he was more restrained, and began to enjoy the game for what it was—not a serious contest, just a bit of a lark.

Passengers gathered to watch the match, including Charles. “Why don't you join us, Hardiman?” called Harry.

“No, no,” Charles protested. “I'm no cricketer.”

“Then you're in the same boat as the rest of us duffers,” said one of Harry's teammates. “Come on, there's a good fellow.”

Elizabeth leaned into Charles and said softly, “If you don't, I will.” He handed her his jacket and strode onto the field, which had been marked out on the deck with chalk. As luck would have it, the very next shot came rolling right at him; to his surprise and Harry's, he scooped it up easily.

“Throw it at their wicket!” Harry told him.

Charles flung the apple at the upended deck chair; it toppled over, to cries of “Good arm!” and “Way, oh!” Later that afternoon, Charles managed to score a run when the juice-slick ball shot from a fielder's hands and over the rail. “Well done, old chap!” Harry pounded him on the back. Charles responded with a rare grin.

Though his side ultimately lost, Harry took it quite philosophically. Charles did not. “We'll get them next time!” he vowed.

Ramesh seemed amused by his grim resolve. “The
Bhagavad Gita
teaches that we should be indifferent to success or failure. One should simply do one's part as cheerfully and as competently as possible, without thinking of the outcome.”