“On the contrary, quite possible,” replied Mr Fogg.
“Well, make it, then!”
“The tour of the world in eighty days?”
“Yes!”
“I am willing.”
“When?”
“At once. Only I warn you that I shall do it at your expense.”
“It is folly!” cried Stuart, who was beginning to be vexed at the persistence of his partner. “Stop! let us play rather.”
“Deal again, then,” replied Phileas Fogg, “for there is a false deal.”
Andrew Stuart took up the cards again with a feverish hand; then suddenly, placing them upon the table, he said:
“Well, Mr Fogg, yes, and I bet four thousand pounds!”
“My dear Stuart,” said Fallentin, “compose yourself. It is not serious.”
“When I say—‘I bet,’” replied Andrew Stuart, “it is always serious.”
“So be it,” said Mr Fogg, and then, turning to his companions, continued: “I have twenty thousand pounds deposited at Baring Brothers. I will willingly risk them—”
“Twenty thousand pounds!” cried John Sullivan. “Twenty thousand pounds, which an unforeseen delay may make you lose.”
“The unforeseen does not exist,” replied Phileas Fogg quietly.
“But, Mr Fogg, this period of eighty days is calculated only as a minimum of time?”
“A minimum well employed suffices for everything.”
“But in order not to exceed it, you must jump mathematically from the trains into the steamers, and from the steamers upon the trains!”
“I will jump mathematically.”
“That is a joke.”
“A good Englishman never jokes when so serious a matter as a wager is in question,” replied Phileas Fogg. “I bet twenty thousand pounds against who will that I will make the tour of the world in eighty days or less—that is, nineteen hundred and twenty hours, or one hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred minutes. Do you accept?”
“We accept,” replied Messrs. Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan, and Ralph, after having consulted.
“Very well,” said Mr Fogg. “The Dover train starts at eight forty-five. I shall take it.”
“This very evening?” asked Stuart.
“This very evening,” replied Phileas Fogg. Then he added, consulting a pocket almanac, “since to-day is Wednesday, the second of October, I ought to be back in London, in this very saloon of the Reform Club, on Saturday, the twenty-first of December, at eight forty-five in the evening, in default of which the twenty thousand pounds at present deposited to my credit with Baring Brothers will belong to you, gentlemen, in fact and by right. Here is a cheque of like amount.”
A memorandum of the wager was made and signed on the spot by the six parties in interest. Phileas Fogg had remained cool. He had certainly not bet to win, and had risked only these twenty thousand pounds—the half of his fortune—because he foresaw that he might have to expend the other half to carry out this difficult, not to say impracticable, project. As for his opponents, they seemed affected, not on account of the stake, but because they had a sort of scruple against a contest under these conditions.
Seven o’clock then struck. They offered to Mr Fogg to stop playing, so that he could make his preparations for departure.
“I am always ready,” replied this tranquil gentleman, and dealing the cards, he said: “Diamonds are trumps. It is your turn to play, Mr Stuart.”
In which Phileas Fogg surprises
Passepartout, his Servant, beyond measure
At twenty-five minutes after seven, Phileas Fogg having gained twenty guineas at whist, took leave of his honourable colleagues, and left the Reform Club. At ten minutes of eight, he opened the door of his house and entered.
Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied his programme, was quite surprised at seeing Mr Fogg guilty of the inexactness of appearing at this unusual hour. According to the notice, the occupant of Saville Row ought not to return before midnight precisely.
Phileas Fogg first went to his bedroom. Then he called “Passepartout!”
Passepartout could not reply, for this call could not be addressed to him, as it was not the hour.
“Passepartout,” Mr Fogg called again without raising his voice much.
Passepartout presented himself.
“It is the second time that I have called you,” said Mr Fogg.
“But it is not midnight,” replied Passepartout, with his watch in his hand.
“I know it,” continued Phileas Fogg, “and I do not find fault with you. We leave in ten minutes for Dover and Calais.”
A sort of faint grimace appeared on the round face of the Frenchman. It was evident that he had not fully understood.
“Monsieur is going to leave home?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Phileas Fogg. “We are going to make the tour of the world.”
Passepartout, with his eyes wide open, his eyebrows raised, his arms extended, and his body collapsed, presented all the symptoms of an astonishment amounting to stupor.
“The tour of the world!” he murmured.
“In eighty days,” replied Mr Fogg. “So we have not a moment to lose.”
“But the trunks?” said Passepartout, who was unconsciously swinging his head from right to left.
“No trunks necessary. Only a carpet-bag. In it two woollen shirts and three pairs of stockings. The same for you. We will purchase on the way. You may bring down my mackintosh and travelling cloak, also stout shoes, although we shall walk but little or not at all. Go.”
Passepartout would have liked to make reply. He could not. He left Mr Fogg’s room, went up to his own, fell back into a chair, and making use of a common phrase in his country, he said: “Well, well, that’s pretty tough. I who wanted to remain quiet!”
And mechanically he made his preparations for departure. The tour of the world in eighty days! Was he doing business with a madman? No. It was a joke, perhaps. They were going to Dover. Good. To Calais. Let it be so. After all, it could not cross the grain of the good fellow very much, who had not trod the soil of his native country for five years. Perhaps they would go as far as Paris, and, indeed, it would give him pleasure to see the great capital again. But, surely, a gentleman so careful of his steps would stop there. Yes, doubtless; but it was not less true that he was starting out, that he was leaving home, this gentleman who, until this time, had been such a homebody!
By eight o’clock, Passepartout had put in order the modest bag which contained his wardrobe and that of his master; then, his mind still disturbed, he left his room, the door of which he closed carefully, and he rejoined Mr Fogg.
Mr Fogg was ready. He carried under his arm Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, which was to furnish him all the necessary directions for his journey. He took the bag from Passepartout’s hands, opened it, and slipped into it a heavy package of those fine bank-notes which are current in all countries.
“You have forgotten nothing?” he asked.
“Nothing,