Around the World in 100 Days (5 page)

“We don't know.”

“Don't know what? Oh, what she's capable of.” Harry gave the fender of the
Flash
a confident pat. “Well, then, it looks as if we'll find out, eh?”

Though Harry was known to exaggerate, when he had bragged that the
Flash
was a different sort of motorcar altogether, he was not overstating the case. Over the previous half-century, inventors had come up with a wide variety of self-propelled vehicles. But the steam-driven ones, with their huge boilers and heavy cast-iron engines, were too slow and ungainly to be practical. The newly developed internal combustion engine was far lighter, but also far less powerful, so “petro cars” tended to be small and rather flimsy, totally unsuited to high speeds or long distances.

To propel the
Flash
, Johnny had built a boiler of thin-gauge steel wrapped with piano wire for strength; at ninety pounds, it weighed half as much as the standard boiler, yet could handle three times as much steam pressure. With the help of a machinist, he had designed and created an engine that weighed a mere fifty pounds but was more efficient than engines four times its size.

Since most of the mechanical parts were concealed beneath the seats or the floorboards, the
Flash
looked much like any other large carriage. The difference lay in how it performed. The ash-wood frame was strong and flexible yet lighter than steel, and the body was made of aluminum, so the motorcar weighed no more than a typical four-horse coach. But its steam engine had the power of twenty or thirty horses—theoretically, at least. How reliably it could deliver that power had yet to be seen.

There was no time to road test the car and make improvements or adjustments. Harry had promised to be ready in a week—just enough time to complete the tasks they already knew were necessary: hooking up the condenser, putting better lining on the brake shoes, replacing a faulty steam valve, getting the water gauge to work, adding a cyclometer to measure the miles, fashioning an extra set of wheels, and, of course, purchasing all the equipment and supplies Harry would need.

“Bully beef!” Johnny called from beneath the motorcar, where he was installing a new oil line.

“Is that a new form of cursing?” said Harry. “Or did you want me to buy some?”

“Buy some.”

“You mean the sort in tins?” Harry grimaced. “I don't like it.”

“I do.”

“Well, that's fine. But I'm getting food for the trip, and you're not coming.”

“Yes, I am.”

Harry knelt and peered under the car. “I'm the one who tells the jokes around here.”

“'Tis no joke.”

“Johnny, it was I who made the bet. You're not obliged to help me. This trip won't be any picnic, you know. There's not much in the way of roads, and precious few hotels or pubs. I'll be driving ten to fifteen hours a day and sleeping in the car, or in a tent, in all sorts of weather. It'll be dirty and miserable and exhausting.”

Johnny turned his head to look at Harry. “So,” he said, “why should you have all the fun?”

Harry sat back on his heels and scratched his head. “You know, now that I think about it, it might not be a bad idea. She's a fine car, but she's bound to have problems sooner or later, and I may not always be able to fix them. The only thing is . . . I mean, do you think . . . that is, are you certain you're up to it?”

“I'm certain.”

“It's just that sometimes you have those . . . spells.”

“I'm certain!” shouted Johnny, so vehemently that Harry flinched. After a minute or two, he heard his friend murmur, “I'm sorry. You said she's my motorcar, too. I should get to go.”

“No need to apologize. You're quite right. You should get to go, and go you shall.” Harry got to his feet. “How much bully beef do you want?”

Before Johnny could reply, there was a knock at the door of the shed. “Who could that be?” Harry lifted the latch and swung the door open to find three gentlemen in morning coats and bowler hats, looking wholly out of place in these rather shabby surroundings. One was a stranger to Harry, a blond youth of about his size and age. The others were all too familiar. “Mr. Sullivan. Mr. Hardiman. What brings you to York Court?”

Sullivan the banker took a long Havana cigar from between his teeth and blew a ring of smoke. “We thought we'd have a look at this motorcar of yours.”

“I see. You're wondering whether there's any chance I might actually win, is that it?”

“Not at all,” said Hardiman irritably. “We merely wanted to make certain you'd be ready within the week, as agreed.”

“Oh, we'll be ready. As for whether or not you may look her over, I'll have to ask Mr. Shaugnessey.” He called to Johnny, “The men who made the wager are here. Is it all right if they examine the
Flash
?”

“I guess,” grumbled Johnny. “Don't let them touch nothing.”

“You may look but not touch,” Harry told the visitors. The three slowly circled the vehicle, doing their best not to brush against the assorted parts that leaned against the walls or step on the tools and piles of oily rags that littered the floor.

“I must say,” the railroad man grudgingly admitted, “she's built far better than I expected.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Mind you, I still don't believe she'll make it around the world. If you're lucky, you might get across the United States. But you'd better take along a lot of spare parts.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Hardiman shoved aside a pile of filthy rags with the polished tip of one shoe and approached Harry. “Good. I know machines, and I know what I'm talking about. Here's another piece of advice. If you should by some miracle manage to reach Asia, take the shortest possible land route from there. If I were you, I'd catch a steamer to Hong Kong and go across southern China and northern India. That should cut nearly a thousand miles off your journey.”

“I see. But why are you telling me this, sir? I should think it would be in your best interest for us to take as
long
a route as possible.”

“Because,” put in Sullivan, “we want you to have every chance to succeed, so that when you lose, there will be no excuses, no crying foul.”

“There will not be, I assure you. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I am on my way to purchase equipment and supplies for the trip.”

“Before you go,” said the railroad man, “let me introduce my son, Charles Hardiman.”

Harry shook the blond youth's hand cordially. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The boy's handshake was limp and his palm felt cold against Harry's.

“Likewise,” said Charles with a slight lisp, but without the least hint of pleasure. He withdrew his hand, glanced at it, then rubbed at his palm with a handkerchief.

“I've talked it over with your father,” said Julius Hardiman, “and we feel it would be best if you took along an impartial observer.”

Harry stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Charles will be going with you, to make certain there are no . . . infractions, shall we say? No bending of the rules?”

“I agreed to the terms,” Harry said, heatedly. “I gave you my word!”

“When your father made his famous wager, he also agreed to the terms. But apparently there was some question as to whether or not he lived up to them.”

“He showed up at the Reform Club on the specified date!”

“That's true,” said Sullivan. “He did circle the globe in eighty
calendar
days. But only because he crossed the international date line and thus gained a day. The fact remains, the actual elapsed time was eighty-
one
days.”

Harry felt his fists clenching, and he thrust them in his pockets. “Well, you needn't worry, sir, because I'll be traveling west, so I'll actually be
losing
a day.”

“That's not such an important issue, here, since you have more time,” said Hardiman. “Our main concern is that the motorcar go the entire distance under its own power. To make certain of that, we need to have an observer aboard.”

“An
impartial
observer, you said. What reason do I have to believe that your son would be impartial?”

“You have my word on it,” said Charles coolly.

“Oh, so
my
word isn't good enough, but
yours
is?”

“Your father has already agreed to this,” said Hardiman, “so I'm afraid it's all settled.”

“He had no right to speak for me! This is my wager!”

“Ah, but you had no money to back it up.”

Though Harry was seething, he managed to say, in a fairly civil tone, “Perhaps you should leave, now. We have a good deal of work to do, and you might get your fine clothing dirty.”

 

As Harry strode up the street toward Fortnum & Mason's department store, he caught sight of another figure he thought he recognized. When he stopped and turned to make certain, the man disappeared down a side street. Harry went on, reciting under his breath a litany of ungentlemanly things he should have said to that lobster-faced midget, Hardiman, and his foppish son, and to that smirking money-grubber, Sullivan.

An hour later he returned, this time riding in a hackney and surrounded by crates and packages—a veritable cornucopia of tinned meats, soups, and milk, plus a variety of desiccated fruits and vegetables. Selecting these supplies would have taken most people an entire day; Harry had simply snatched up a bit of this and a bit of that. He had also bought a splendid sports knife that could be transformed into a variety of useful tools, including a screwdriver, a saw, scissors, an awl, a file, a corkscrew, and a drill.

As they drew near the blacksmith shop, the driver shouted, “Cor! There's summat afire up ahead!”

Harry thrust his head out the cab window. Roiling clouds of black smoke were rising from the vicinity of the shop. “Drive on!” he ordered. “Quickly!” He had the door open and was leaping from the cab before it rolled to a stop. He dashed around to the rear of the shop to see one corner of the shed engulfed in flames. “Find a fire station or an alarm box!” he called to the cabdriver.

“What'll I do wiv your purchases, then?”

“Never mind that! Just go!”

The door of the shed flew open and Johnny stumbled out, coughing. “The
Flash
! We got to save her!”

“Come on, then!” Harry yanked a handkerchief from his vest pocket. Covering his nose and mouth, he plunged into the smoky interior. Luckily, all the car's wheels were currently attached. Harry began pushing the vehicle, only to jerk his hands away as the hot metal seared his skin. He put one shoulder against the car and heaved. For all their efforts to make the
Flash
as light as possible, it was no featherweight. Harry couldn't budge it.

He glanced furtively at half a dozen metal cans filled with kerosene, which they'd been using for fuel. If the flames reached those, the shed and everything in it would be incinerated instantly. He seized one of the cans and flung it through the nearest window.

Johnny appeared beside him, a filthy rag pressed to his face. Together they tossed out the rest of the kerosene cans, then turned to the car. Just above their heads, the roof rafters were ablaze. “On three!” called Harry. “One! Two! Three!”

The
Flash
rocked forward slightly, then settled back. “Again! One! Two! Three!” It still refused to move.

“The gear stick!” said Johnny.

Harry groaned. He hadn't checked to see whether the driving gear was engaged. He flung himself over the top of the passenger door and whacked the gear stick painfully with one hand until it disengaged. At once, the
Flash
began to roll.

Just as they got it through the doorway, part of the shed roof collapsed, so close behind them that sparks stung the back of Harry's neck. “Keep going!” he cried. “Get her as far away as possible!” Ahead was a board fence that marked the edge of the adjoining property. They mowed it down and kept pushing until the front bumper rammed up against the neighbor's privy.

The friends sank to the ground, drawing ragged breaths punctuated by racking coughs. Through his own wheezing, Harry heard the sound of a clanging bell. “The fire brigade,” he gasped.

“Too late.” Johnny nodded toward the shed. The remainder of the roof caved in, sending up an enormous billow of greasy smoke. The horse-drawn fire wagon drew up before the blacksmith shop; firemen scrambled to hook up the hand-operated pump and direct a jet of water onto the flames.

“Did we lose anything crucial?” asked Harry.