Around the World in 100 Days (3 page)

He prayed that Andrew Stuart would not be occupying his customary spot outside the Club; Harry didn't need another embarrassing confrontation. But as he approached the imposing building, the shabby, stooped figure was waiting there, still hoping against hope that one of his old Club cronies might take pity on him and invite him in for a drink. They never did. Most turned their heads away and pretended not to recognize him; a very few stopped to ask how he was—knowing well enough that he was miserable and destitute—and, under the guise of shaking his hand, passed him a shilling or two.

Harry suspected that if he tried to give Stuart money, the man would refuse it—most likely spit on it, in fact. So he only nodded and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Stuart.”

“For you, maybe,” snarled the man. Harry hurried on, but Stuart's rasping voice followed him. “You're ashamed to face me, aren't you? And well you should be, after—” His tirade was cut short by a fit of coughing. Harry rolled his eyes at the doorman, who shrugged sympathetically and held the door for him.

It wasn't necessary to ask where he might find his father. Phileas Fogg lived his life according to a precise schedule that seldom varied—with the notable exception of his round-the-world voyage. According to friends, Mr. Fogg had once spent most of his waking time at the Club and taken all his meals there, but since his marriage almost twenty years earlier, his habits had changed somewhat. Now he had only luncheon there, after which he retired to the library to read the day's papers until the stroke of three. He then proceeded to the card room for a few rounds of whist with friends; at precisely five-forty, he rose—often in the middle of a game—and went home for supper.

Since the clock in the entry hall read a quarter to three, Harry went up the main staircase to the library, a favorite gathering spot for the more literary-minded members, including the amiable Arthur Conan Doyle. Though medicine was his real profession, Dr. Doyle had penned some historical novels—Harry had not read them—and two detective stories that Harry had rather enjoyed. At the moment, Dr. Doyle appeared to be napping. Phileas Fogg was in his habitual spot, in an armchair by the window that overlooked the courtyard.

Harry took a deep breath and started across the room. As he passed Dr. Doyle, the man glanced up at him. “Ah, Harry, you rascal. What's this I hear about a motorcar mishap?”

THREE
In which

H
arry groaned inwardly. He might have known the news would make the rounds quickly. When it came to spreading gossip, society matrons were poor amateurs compared with the men of the Reform Club. He was tempted to lay all the blame on the careless drayman, but his sense of fair play wouldn't let him. “Yes, a wagon pulled out from an alley right in front of me and I couldn't stop in time. It was my fault, I suppose, for driving so fast. But you know, you can't rein in a motorcar the way you do a horse; they'll run away with you if you're not careful.”

Dr. Doyle laughed. “No, I'm afraid I
don't
know. I've never ridden in one. I must say, I wouldn't mind it, though. It sounds like great fun.”

“Oh, it's splendid! I'll tell you what, Doctor; the next time I take her for a spin, you may come along.”

“The next time?” said a dry voice. “It seems to me you've done quite enough damage.” Phileas Fogg's words betrayed no particular feeling, not even disapproval. His voice was even and matter-of-fact, as always. And as always, it totally unnerved Harry. He would have much preferred to have his father storm and shout, for when a storm blows over the air is clear again. This was like the eerie calm before a storm that never came.

“I know,” said Harry. “And I'm sorry, sir. But it won't happen again. Next time we'll tow her somewhere where there's plenty of open space and—”

The small, florid-faced man who sat on the sofa lowered his copy of the
Times
. “You'd better tow it to Bodmin Moor, then. The city is no place for these devil-wagons and their infernal noise.”

“On the contrary, sir,” Harry replied, a bit too sharply, “ours makes very little noise. She is not one those flimsy contraptions that resemble an overgrown baby perambulator with a clattering gasoline engine. Ours is substantially built and driven by steam—a sort of smaller version of the steam coaches that were popular fifty or sixty years ago.”

The man gave a dismissive laugh. “I would hardly say steam coaches were
popular
. In point of fact, they were a dismal failure.”

“Of course they were,” said Harry. “But only because the railroad interests saw them as a threat and did everything in their power to destroy them.”

The man's face turned even redder and he flung aside his paper. “See here, young man—”

“I'll handle this, Julius,” put in Phileas Fogg. He turned to Harry. “You owe this gentleman an apology.”

“I only spoke the truth,” Harry protested.

“I believe Mr. Hardiman is in a better position to know about such things than you are. He is, after all, president of the Great Southern Railway.”

“Oh.” Harry gave an embarrassed grin. Though he was quick to fly off the handle, he was also quick to make amends. “I do apologize then, sir. I didn't mean to be discourteous. It's just that . . . Well, it gets my back up when people speak of motorcars as if they're merely a nuisance, some sort of frivolous toy.”

“Aren't they?”

“No, sir. I believe they are the most practical form of transportation ever invented, and within a very few years, half the population of London will own one.”

Hardiman gave an incredulous snort. “Really? So you think they will replace the locomotive, do you?”

“I don't know. But they will surely replace the horse.”

The railroad man laughed again, and most of the others joined in—with the exception of Phileas Fogg.

“Not the motorcars I've seen, I'm afraid,” said Dr. Doyle. “The few that actually work travel no faster than a man can walk, and they get bogged down in a large mud puddle.”

“You're quite right,” said Harry.

“Ah, he agrees!” crowed Hardiman.

“But,” Harry went on, “as I said, the
Flash
is a different sort of motorcar altogether.”

“The
Flash
?” echoed Hardiman with a chuckle.

“Yes. We haven't given her a proper road test yet, but she has plenty of power and not much weight. We fully expect her to do thirty miles per hour or more and ford a stream or climb a hill better than a team of Clydesdales.”

“I think perhaps you exaggerate,” said Phileas Fogg.

“You haven't seen her in action, Father!” Harry exclaimed. Then, knowing how Phileas Fogg disliked displays of emotion, he added more calmly, “I really don't feel I'm exaggerating in the least, Father.”

Fogg regarded his son evenly for a moment. Just as he seemed about to respond, the clock struck three. He rose automatically from his chair, as though he himself were run by clockwork. “Pardon me, gentlemen. I have an appointment in the card room.”

Harry wondered what his father had been about to say. Was he curious at all about what Harry's motorcar could do? Or did he feel, too, that the machines were useless? Was he truly ashamed of his son's unconventional behavior and attitude? Or did some part of him secretly admire Harry's spirit? Guessing what lay beneath that calm, composed exterior was like trying to fathom what the Buddha was thinking, or the Mona Lisa. No wonder the man was such a formidable card-player; his opponents could have no inkling of what sort of hand he held. Unfortunately, neither could his partner.

The other club members, seeing the opportunity for a rousing discussion, had pulled their chairs closer. “So,” said Mr. Sullivan, the banker, “this
Flash
of yours. Is she built any better than these—what did you call them? Overgrown perambulators?”

“Oh, far better. Johnny's given her a frame of ash, like the best carriages, and made the body from lightweight sheets of aluminum.”

“Johnny?” said Dr. Doyle. “You don't mean Johnny Shaugnessey?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically. “My friend is a genius at this sort of thing.”

“The boy who was kicked in the head by a horse?” said Mr. Flanagan, the brewer. “I'd hardly call him a
genius
.”

“I know, I know,” said Harry. “When he's dealing with people he's slow and awkward. But when it comes to machines he has a . . . a sort of
instinct
.”

Flanagan laughed. “Instinct? I thought that was the province of animals.”

“Whatever you call it,” said Harry impatiently, “he knows how to build things. When we've got the kinks worked out, this motorcar will be able to go anywhere. Why, if I wanted to, I daresay I could drive her around the world.”

For a moment there was dead silence in the room. “Well, now,” said Hardiman, the railroad man. “That's a wildly extravagant statement. You wouldn't care to retract that, would you?”

Harry hesitated. Perhaps it had been a grandiose claim. But he didn't like the condescending tone of these men, the way they made fun of Johnny and of the machine to which the two of them had devoted hundreds of hours of greasy, backbreaking, knuckle-skinning work.

He looked Hardiman in the eye. “No, sir,” he said. “I am confident that she would be up to the task.”

“Really?” said the railroad man. “Just how confident are you?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean, would you be willing to bet money on it?”

“Certainly.”

“How much?”

“Whatever sum you propose.”

“How does two thousand pounds strike you?”

The truth was, it struck him almost dumb; though it might seem a reasonable wager to the president of a railroad, for him it was a huge one—roughly ten times the amount he had spent building the
Flash
. But his pride wouldn't let him back down. He bowed slightly. “Two thousand it is.”

With a self-satisfied smirk, Hardiman turned to the other members. “Perhaps some of you gentlemen would like to propose wagers of your own?”

“Not I,” said Dr. Doyle. “A poor physician and struggling author can't afford such immoderate gestures. And frankly, Harry, I'm not sure that you should be—”

“Count me in,” interrupted Flanagan, eagerly. “I have another two thousand that says you'll never make it.”

“If the boy is willing,” said Sullivan, “I'm in for an equal amount.”

“The more you gentlemen wager, the more I stand to win,” said Harry staunchly. Though six thousand pounds was a staggering sum, his confidence in the car and in himself remained firm.

“Excellent!” Hardiman rubbed his hands together. “Shall we shake on it, then?”

“One moment,” said Sullivan. “Perhaps we should set some sort of parameters, here. After all, if we give him an unlimited amount of time, of course he can do it. He could rebuild the car as many times as necessary. That wouldn't prove anything.”

Harry did a quick series of calculations in his head. He knew from repeatedly tracing the route of his father's famous journey that the distance around the world was roughly 25,000 miles. He could count on the
Flash
to average at least 25 miles per hour. If he drove ten hours each day, that was 250 miles per day. Two hundred and fifty divided into 25,000 was: “One hundred days,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” said Sullivan.

“Does one hundred days sound like a fair allowance of time?”

The men glanced at one another. “You really think that's enough?” said Flanagan.

“Don't argue with the lad,” said Hardiman. “If he says he can do it that quickly, let him prove it. When will you start?”

“Within the week.”

“Excellent!” Hardiman repeated, gleefully. “Dr. Doyle, would you please make a note of all of this, for the record? Six thousand pounds. One hundred days.”

“One more thing,” said Sullivan. “We should clearly stipulate that the vehicle must go the entire distance under its own power—that is, not aboard a flatcar or a ship, or towed by horses.”

“You can hardly expect me to drive across the ocean,” said Harry. “Or across rivers.”

“Of course not,” said Hardiman. “Let the record state, then, that you may ship the motorcar across any and all bodies of water, but otherwise the motorcar must travel under its own power. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Harry shook the hands of the three men in turn. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have quite a number of preparations to make.”

As he left the library, he heard Hardiman say snidely to the others, “He needs to prepare himself all right—to lose this wager!”

Harry's heart was racing and he felt flushed and vibrant, the way he did after bowling a strenuous inning of cricket. “Go ahead and laugh, gentlemen,” he muttered under his breath. “The last laugh will be mine.”

He was halfway down the stairs before a thought occurred to him that dampened his buoyant mood. If he was going to travel all the way around the world, he would need a certain amount of money for expenses—just how much money, he wasn't sure. According to Harry's mother, her husband had spent something on the order of ten thousand pounds in making his epic journey, but that was an extreme case. After all, in addition to paying for his passage and Passepartout's, Fogg had purchased a whole ship, not to mention an entire elephant.

Harry's expenses would be far more modest. Fuel was no problem; the
Flash
would burn nearly anything, from kerosene to wood chips. Nor was lodging; he could sleep in the car. But he would need food and steamship tickets and that sort of thing.