Around the World in 100 Days (7 page)

Harry grinned. “This is nothing. I once bowled two innings of cricket with a broken index finger. We leave tomorrow morning.”

SEVEN
In which

W
hen news about the motorcar and its builders appeared on the front pages of the papers, Hardiman and his cronies were disturbed. The stories portrayed Harry and Johnny not as impetuous upstarts who had bitten off more than they could chew, but as underdogs: clever, spunky lads bravely taking on a seemingly impossible challenge—just the sort of thing Victorian readers relished. No one had even bothered to interview the three stodgy men who represented the wealthy elite.

Hardiman promptly announced that the car would officially begin its journey in front of the Reform Club at 10:00 A.M. sharp on Thursday, and that he personally would make a speech, generously wishing the young travelers well—and, of course, slipping in a few references to his railway, Sullivan's bank, and Flanagan's brewery.

Hardiman didn't bother to consult Harry and Johnny before making the announcement. It would serve the man right, Harry thought, if they left directly from the blacksmith shop before the sun was up. Of course, that would mean leaving without Charles Hardiman—not a bad idea, really, but Harry didn't care to defy his father's wishes.

On Wednesday evening they loaded the food, tools, and other supplies in the storage space behind the rear seat and once again took turns standing guard. At dawn, they began making their final preparations. Depending on the fuel they used, it took only twenty or thirty minutes to get up a full head of steam; they spent the rest of the time making sure everything was in working order.

Ordinarily Harry would have done his share of the work, but his burned hands made him clumsy and tentative. By the time they adjusted the burner for the umpteenth time, resoldered a leaking condenser line, and greased the balky steering linkage, it was nearly ten o'clock. “If there's anything else,” said Harry, “we'll fix it later. Let's go!”

Johnny yanked his workman's cap down until it touched his ears to make sure the jagged scars on his scalp were hidden from sight; then he climbed into the passenger seat. Harry pulled on a clean pair of gloves to protect his hands, engaged the gears, and slowly pulled out the throttle. Smoothly, almost silently, the
Flash
rolled into the street; the crunch of the rubber-rimmed wheels on the stones made more noise than the soft chugging of the engine.

When they reached Pall Mall, Harry said incredulously, “Great heavens, Johnny! Will you look at that?” The pavement before the Reform Club was packed so tightly with people that there was no room for the car to pass. When the
Flash
approached, a cheer went up; slowly the wall of bodies began to separate into two masses and Harry carefully guided the car between them.

They were surrounded by smiling faces; eager hands reached out to pat the
Flash
's fenders or shake the boys' hands. Someone knocked Johnny's cap askew and he frantically yanked it back in place. A pretty girl bent over and gave Harry a swift kiss on the cheek. Another flung a bouquet of flowers that landed in Johnny's lap.

Though all this adulation was like ambrosia to Harry, he knew how excruciating it must be for his reclusive friend. “Stiff upper lip, lad,” he said. “I'll get us out of here as quick as ever I can.”

On the steps of the Reform Club stood Julius Hardiman and his son, along with Sullivan and Flanagan and half a dozen dignitaries Harry didn't recognize. There was no sign of his father, but Harry spotted Aouda Fogg on the fringes of the crowd and waved to her. She raised one hand tentatively, as though not quite certain it was her son driving the car.

Charles Hardiman, lugging an enormous leather portmanteau, wormed his way through the throng. With great effort he flung his bag into the car, then stood there looking baffled. Since the rear seat had been added as an afterthought to accommodate their unwanted passenger, no door led to it. “How do I get in?” asked Charles.

“However you like,” replied Harry. He watched with amusement as the boy placed one foot on the running board, swung the other awkwardly over the side of the car, and toppled unceremoniously into the seat. His bowler hat went flying. The crowd laughed and applauded.

“Better put some stirrups on her!” called one man.

On the steps of the Reform Club, Julius Hardiman was waving his hands and shouting over the din, “Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention, please! I would like to say a few words on this momentous occasion!”

Harry groaned. “Time to go,” he murmured to Johnny and pulled out the throttle. The car leaped forward, a bit more eagerly than he had expected, sending spectators scattering. “Sorry!” he called. “She has a mind of her own!”

Charles, who had been thrown back in his seat and lost his hat again, said heatedly, “That was rude of you, Fogg! My father was about to make a speech!”

“Oh, was he?” said Harry innocently. “My apologies. These motorcars; they're so unpredictable, you know.” Just when it seemed that they had left the crowd behind, Harry saw another group of a dozen or so blocking the street ahead of them. They seemed to have something more in mind than just gawking at the celebrated motorcar. Some of them brandished sticks; others clutched paving stones in their hands. Several carried wooden signs with crudely painted messages. “What the deuce—?” said Harry.

“They look as though they mean to attack someone,” said Charles.

“They do,” said Harry. “Us.” As the mob drew nearer, he could hear them chanting “Down with the devil-wagons!” and he could make out the messages on the signs: STEAM IS DEDLY; MACHINES ARE THE WORK OF MADMEN; THE SMOKE OF THERE TORMENT ASENDETH UP FOR EVER & EVER & THEY HAVE NO REST.

A stone sailed through the air and bounced off the fender of the
Flash
. “Do something!” cried Charles.

“Turn!” shouted Johnny. But they were in the middle of a block; the only side streets were narrow alleys. If they got stuck in one of those, they would be at the mob's mercy.

Harry glanced around. Just ahead of them, a horse-drawn delivery van was pulled up to the curb. “I've a better idea.” He reached for a small handle that protruded from the dashboard, next to the throttle.

“I'm getting out!” said Charles.

“Don't move!” Harry yanked on the handle. An earassaulting shriek rent the air. The horse harnessed to the delivery van reared up, let out a whinny nearly as piercing as the steam whistle, and bolted. The New Luddites scrambled for the sidewalks, clearing a path for the terrified animal and the careening wagon—and the motorcar that roared along right behind them. “Heads down!” Harry warned his passengers. A stone struck the glass windscreen, cracking it; another caromed off the leather hood that was folded, accordion-like, behind the rear seat.

A moment later they were out of range of the Luddites' missiles. “It's a lucky thing they hate machines so much!” Harry gloated. “If they'd brought a catapult, we'd be in trouble!”

“We'd be in a good deal more trouble if they had guns,” said Charles sourly.

“Oh, I'm sure they meant us no personal harm; they just wanted to bang the car up a bit.”

“I daresay they'd have banged us up a bit as well. We should have abandoned it. I'm not a coward, you know. I just can't see risking my own skin for the sake of a machine.”

Harry gave him a stern glance. “See here, Hardiman. Let's get one thing straight right from the beginning. The
Flash
is more than just a machine. Johnny and I have put a devil of a lot of sweat and blood into building her, and we'll do whatever it takes to protect her, even if it means risking our own skins. If you're not willing to do the same, you may as well get out now.”

Charles took a moment to adjust his hat and his tie before answering. “I'm willing,” he said, coolly. “Up to a point.” He opened his portmanteau and drew out a leather-bound diary and a fountain pen. Checking his pocket watch, he made a note of the time, then consulted a small 1891 calendar printed in the front of the diary. “We left the Reform Club—rudely—at ten-fifteen A.M. on Thursday, the sixth of August.” He counted ahead one hundred days. “So. In order to win this bet of yours, you and of course your machine—sorry, your
more
-than-a-machine—must appear at the foot of the Club steps no later than ten-fifteen A.M. on the fourteenth of November. Correct?”

“Is that calendar days or elapsed days? We'll lose a day when we cross the Pacific Ocean, you know.”

“If we get that far.”

“Oh, we'll get that far, I promise you.”

“According to my father, you are to have one hundred calendar days.”

Harry nodded. “All right. Just so I know where we stand. I hope I can trust you to keep an accurate count of the days.”

“Of course.”

Though Harry had his doubts, he kept them to himself. As irksome as young Hardiman was, there was no point in antagonizing the boy. Like it or not, they were stuck with him for the next one hundred days. Well, actually, only ninety-nine. But Harry feared that they would be very long ones.

EIGHT
In which

H
arry knew a good deal about steamships, but it was mainly their size and weight and speed and construction that interested him. He knew nothing at all about traveling on one; he had let his father make those arrangements. Phileas Fogg had booked passage for him and his companions on the steamship
Aurania
, which departed from the port of Liverpool at noon on the eighth of August.

The distance from London to Liverpool was no more than two hundred miles and they had two full days before the ship sailed; barring a major breakdown, they were sure to make it. With that in mind, Harry drove slowly and carefully—for perhaps half an hour. Once they were out of the city, with the open road ahead of them, he felt an irresistible urge to see what the
Flash
could do and he pulled out the throttle—not all the way; though he might be impetuous, he was not a complete fool.

The car leaped forward like a horse who feels the sting of the driver's whip. Harry laughed gleefully. “She's got muscle, Johnny, and plenty of it!”

Johnny could be nearly as inscrutable as Phileas Fogg, but Harry thought he detected a smile on his friend's lopsided face. “Just don't strain her muscles.”

Harry consulted the cyclometer on the dashboard. “Ten miles down! Only twenty-four thousand nine hundred ninety to go!” Happy to be really rolling at last, he burst into a chorus of “Chucka-roo-choo-choo,” a rollicking music-hall song.

Charles Hardiman, holding his hat tightly on his head, peered over the seat back. “How fast are we going?” he asked, sounding a little anxious.

Harry shrugged. “There's no way of telling, unless we time her. Does your watch have a second hand?”

“Yes.”

“Start timing when I say ‘go'.” When the last digit on the cyclometer hit zero, he called, “Go!” When it rolled around to zero again, he said, “Stop!”

“One minute, fifty seconds.”

“Harry,” said Johnny.

Harry ignored him. “So that's ...” He couldn't quite manage the math in his head.

“Just over thirty miles per hour,” said Charles rather smugly.

“Harry,” said Johnny.

Harry paid no attention. “That's as fast as most locomotives! And she's nowhere near full steam!”

“Harry!” said Johnny.

“Yes, Johnny, what is it?”

“You missed the turn for Liverpool.”

 

Harry had assumed they would leave their celebrity status behind as soon as they left London. But in each town they passed through, dozens of people, sometimes hundreds, were lined up along the highway, waving and cheering.

Even in Liverpool, a city that saw strange and exotic travelers come and go every day, the “intrepid young motorists” (as the papers were fond of calling them) caused a considerable stir. On Saturday morning, a large crowd gathered to watch the “marvelous machine” (as the papers were fond of calling it) being lowered into the hold of the SS
Aurania
. Though Johnny would much rather have kept out of sight, he stoically stayed by the
Flash
's side, making certain she was properly cared for.

By the time the
Aurania
pulled away from the pier, there was such a press of people that two poor chaps were accidentally pushed into the water and had to be fished out by longshoremen. Cries of “Bon voyage!” and “Good luck!” filled the air. Harry stood at the rail on the second-class deck, grinning and waving as though he were Henry Irving or some other celebrated stage actor.

A soft, melodious voice next to him said, “My goodness, what a turnout. There must be someone famous aboard.” Harry gave a brief sideways glance, followed by a second, much longer look. The speaker was a young woman of perhaps twenty, wearing a long linen duster and a rather masculine-looking wide-brimmed felt hat—not the most fashionable attire, but on her tall, slender frame it was quite attractive. She craned her long, graceful neck this way and that, searching for the cause of all the commotion.

Though he had an appetite for attention and acclaim, Harry was neither boastful nor conceited. He did not acknowledge that he himself was the cause. “Perhaps it's royalty,” he suggested. “I saw someone earlier who was a dead ringer for the Prince of Wales.”

The young woman laughed gaily, almost musically. “I don't expect it was, though. I believe he has a ship of his very own.” She was interrupted by a blast from the ship's steam whistle, which had a far deeper, mellower tone than the
Flash
's. She grimaced and held her ears. “That always frightens me a little. I'm afraid it's the boiler, or whatever it is, blowing up.”