Around the World in 80 Days

Chapter XXXVI

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG'S NAME IS ONCE MORE AT A PRE­MI­UM ON 'CHANGE

It is time to re­late what a change took place in En­glish pub­lic opin­ion when it tran­spired that the re­al bankrob­ber, a cer­tain James Strand, had been ar­rest­ed, on the 17th day of De­cem­ber, at Ed­in­burgh. Three days be­fore, Phileas Fogg had been a crim­inal, who was be­ing des­per­ate­ly fol­lowed up by the po­lice; now he was an hon­ourable gen­tle­man, math­emat­ical­ly pur­su­ing his ec­cen­tric jour­ney round the world.

The pa­pers re­sumed their dis­cus­sion about the wa­ger; all those who had laid bets, for or against him, re­vived their in­ter­est, as if by mag­ic; the “Phileas Fogg bonds” again be­came ne­go­tiable, and many new wa­gers were made. Phileas Fogg's name was once more at a pre­mi­um on 'Change.

His five friends of the Re­form Club passed these three days in a state of fever­ish sus­pense. Would Phileas Fogg, whom they had for­got­ten, reap­pear be­fore their eyes! Where was he at this mo­ment? The 17th of De­cem­ber, the day of James Strand's ar­rest, was the sev­en­ty-​sixth since Phileas Fogg's de­par­ture, and no news of him had been re­ceived. Was he dead? Had he aban­doned the ef­fort, or was he con­tin­uing his jour­ney along the route agreed up­on? And would he ap­pear on Sat­ur­day, the 21st of De­cem­ber, at a quar­ter be­fore nine in the evening, on the thresh­old of the Re­form Club sa­loon?

The anx­iety in which, for three days, Lon­don so­ci­ety ex­ist­ed, can­not be de­scribed. Tele­grams were sent to Amer­ica and Asia for news of Phileas Fogg. Mes­sen­gers were dis­patched to the house in Sav­ille Row morn­ing and evening. No news. The po­lice were ig­no­rant what had be­come of the de­tec­tive, Fix, who had so un­for­tu­nate­ly fol­lowed up a false scent. Bets in­creased, nev­er­the­less, in num­ber and val­ue. Phileas Fogg, like a race­horse, was draw­ing near his last turn­ing-​point. The bonds were quot­ed, no longer at a hun­dred be­low par, but at twen­ty, at ten, and at five; and par­alyt­ic old Lord Albe­mar­le bet even in his favour.

A great crowd was col­lect­ed in Pall Mall and the neigh­bour­ing streets on Sat­ur­day evening; it seemed like a mul­ti­tude of bro­kers per­ma­nent­ly es­tab­lished around the Re­form Club. Cir­cu­la­tion was im­ped­ed, and ev­ery­where dis­putes, dis­cus­sions, and fi­nan­cial trans­ac­tions were go­ing on. The po­lice had great dif­fi­cul­ty in keep­ing back the crowd, and as the hour when Phileas Fogg was due ap­proached, the ex­cite­ment rose to its high­est pitch.

The five an­tag­onists of Phileas Fogg had met in the great sa­loon of the club. John Sul­li­van and Samuel Fal­lentin, the bankers, An­drew Stu­art, the en­gi­neer, Gau­thi­er Ralph, the di­rec­tor of the Bank of Eng­land, and Thomas Flana­gan, the brew­er, one and all wait­ed anx­ious­ly.

When the clock in­di­cat­ed twen­ty min­utes past eight, An­drew Stu­art got up, say­ing, “Gen­tle­men, in twen­ty min­utes the time agreed up­on be­tween Mr. Fogg and our­selves will have ex­pired.”

“What time did the last train ar­rive from Liv­er­pool?” asked Thomas Flana­gan.

“At twen­ty-​three min­utes past sev­en,” replied Gau­thi­er Ralph; “and the next does not ar­rive till ten min­utes af­ter twelve.”

“Well, gen­tle­men,” re­sumed An­drew Stu­art, “if Phileas Fogg had come in the 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time. We can, there­fore, re­gard the bet as won.”

“Wait; don't let us be too hasty,” replied Samuel Fal­lentin. “You know that Mr. Fogg is very ec­cen­tric. His punc­tu­al­ity is well known; he nev­er ar­rives too soon, or too late; and I should not be sur­prised if he ap­peared be­fore us at the last minute.”

“Why,” said An­drew Stu­art ner­vous­ly, “if I should see him, I should not be­lieve it was he.”

“The fact is,” re­sumed Thomas Flana­gan, “Mr. Fogg's project was ab­surd­ly fool­ish. What­ev­er his punc­tu­al­ity, he could not pre­vent the de­lays which were cer­tain to oc­cur; and a de­lay of on­ly two or three days would be fa­tal to his tour.”

“Ob­serve, too,” added John Sul­li­van, “that we have re­ceived no in­tel­li­gence from him, though there are tele­graph­ic lines all along is route.”

“He has lost, gen­tle­man,” said An­drew Stu­art, “he has a hun­dred times lost! You know, be­sides, that the Chi­na the on­ly steam­er he could have tak­en from New York to get here in time ar­rived yes­ter­day. I have seen a list of the pas­sen­gers, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not among them. Even if we ad­mit that for­tune has favoured him, he can scarce­ly have reached Amer­ica. I think he will be at least twen­ty days be­hind-​hand, and that Lord Albe­mar­le will lose a cool five thou­sand.”

“It is clear,” replied Gau­thi­er Ralph; “and we have noth­ing to do but to present Mr. Fogg's cheque at Bar­ings to-​mor­row.”

At this mo­ment, the hands of the club clock point­ed to twen­ty min­utes to nine.

“Five min­utes more,” said An­drew Stu­art.

The five gen­tle­men looked at each oth­er. Their anx­iety was be­com­ing in­tense; but, not wish­ing to be­tray it, they read­ily as­sent­ed to Mr. Fal­lentin's pro­pos­al of a rub­ber.

“I wouldn't give up my four thou­sand of the bet,” said An­drew Stu­art, as he took his seat, “for three thou­sand nine hun­dred and nine­ty-​nine.”

The clock in­di­cat­ed eigh­teen min­utes to nine.

The play­ers took up their cards, but could not keep their eyes off the clock. Cer­tain­ly, how­ev­er se­cure they felt, min­utes had nev­er seemed so long to them!

“Sev­en­teen min­utes to nine,” said Thomas Flana­gan, as he cut the cards which Ralph hand­ed to him.

Then there was a mo­ment of si­lence. The great sa­loon was per­fect­ly qui­et; but the mur­murs of the crowd out­side were heard, with now and then a shrill cry. The pen­du­lum beat the sec­onds, which each play­er ea­ger­ly count­ed, as he lis­tened, with math­emat­ical reg­ular­ity.

“Six­teen min­utes to nine!” said John Sul­li­van, in a voice which be­trayed his emo­tion.

One minute more, and the wa­ger would be won. An­drew Stu­art and his part­ners sus­pend­ed their game. They left their cards, and count­ed the sec­onds.

At the for­ti­eth sec­ond, noth­ing. At the fifti­eth, still noth­ing.

At the fifty-​fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, fol­lowed by ap­plause, hur­rahs, and some fierce growls.

The play­ers rose from their seats.

At the fifty-​sev­enth sec­ond the door of the sa­loon opened; and the pen­du­lum had not beat the six­ti­eth sec­ond when Phileas Fogg ap­peared, fol­lowed by an ex­cit­ed crowd who had forced their way through the club doors, and in his calm voice, said, “Here I am, gen­tle­men!”