Around the World in 100 Days

by Gary Blackwood

  “She’s from Inja, ain’t she?”

  “Originally, yes, but—”

  “I thought so. I served in Inja, you know, and, same as your da, I had me a bibi. But I weren’t so daft as to drag her back to England with me.” He peered through the bars at Aouda. “Although if she’d looked as good as that one, I must say, I’d’ve been tempted—” The man broke off in midsentence as Harry’s fist caught him in the jaw. He staggered backward a few steps, then gave a long sigh and sagged to the floor.

  The other prisoners descended upon Harry, scowling and grumbling, but when he picked up the makeshift cricket bat and turned to face them, they hesitated. “He had it coming, gentlemen,” said Harry. “If he had insulted your mother, which of you would not have done the same?” With that, he tossed the piece of wood aside and slipped out into the corridor.

  TWO In which

  HARRY RELUCTANTLY FACES THE MUSIC

  Harry was fined ten shillings for careless driving and instructed to pay two pounds to the drayman for the damage done to his cart. The clerk handed him a printed leaflet. “If you plan to go on piloting motorcars, I suggest you read that.”

  It contained a set of rules for self-propelled vehicles: They were to go no faster than two miles per hour; they must be preceded by a person on foot, twenty yards ahead; they must emit no smoke or steam; at the sight of a horse, they must stop altogether. Harry had thoroughly broken all four rules. “Thank you,” he said, and tucked the paper into his waistcoat pocket. Outside the station house, the wind had died down a little. “Would you like to take a cab?”

  “Please,” said his mother. “But first, let us walk that way for a little distance and see whether we can spy my hat.”

  Harry laughed. “The wind claimed it, eh?”

  Aouda wrinkled her nose. “I wish you would not use that term.”

  “What term?”

  “You know.”

  “Oh, you mean ‘eh.’ It’s a very useful term, Mother. Like the French phrase ‘n’est-ce pas?’”

  “French has a refined quality. The other makes you sound like a day laborer.”

  “Well, I shall do my best to avoid it, if it displeases you.” He leaned down and gave her a swift kiss on the cheek.

  “You are a good boy, Harry, if only you would try to be a bit more ...”

  “Stuffy?” said Harry. “Stiff-necked? Straitlaced?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “I was about to say cautious.”

  “But I do try. Honestly I do. I just can’t seem to get the hang of it. Oh!” He suddenly broke into a run, startling Aouda until she saw where he was headed—toward a white object that had caught on the base of a lamppost. He snatched it up and came trotting back, grinning triumphantly.

  Aouda shook her head and sighed. Her son was young yet, she reminded herself. Surely in a year or two his high spirits would begin to ebb and he would learn to behave suitably. As if reading her thoughts, he gave a gentlemanly bow when he handed her the hat. The brim was smudged with dirt and the veil was partially torn off, but all in all it had survived the adventure remarkably well.

  Harry hailed a hackney and helped his mother inside. “Number Seven, Savile Row, please,” he told the driver. As they clattered along, he said, “How did you learn where I was?”

  “Your friend Jonathan told me.”

  “Jona—? Oh, Johnny. Well, I wish he hadn’t. Does Father know?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “You must tell him before someone else does. And you must apologize to him.”

  “Apologize? It wasn’t his wagon I ran into. And it wasn’t his motorcar I banged up.”

  “No, but it is his reputation that you have damaged by your reckless behavior. And I hardly need to remind you that this is not the first time.”

  Harry certainly did not need to be reminded of his past transgressions, which had increased in severity as he increased in age. At six he had taken apart his father’s pocket watch to see what made it tick—or rather what had once made it tick. When he was eight, the family lost a perfectly capable housemaid after she discovered the carcass of a cat boiling on the back of the stove. To Harry’s credit, the animal had been dead when he found it; he had planned to salvage the bones and assemble them like the skeletons at the Natural History Museum.

  At thirteen, he came home bruised and bloodied from playing football with the working-class boys; though a doctor was called in to set his broken nose, it did not heal quite straight, giving him a slightly raffish look. At sixteen, he disgraced himself by flunking out of Eton, having spent far too little of his time studying the classics and far too much playing cricket.

  It wasn’t that he disliked learning; he just didn’t seem to have the patience it required. A scholar might pore over dry, dusty volumes written in dead languages for years and have precious little to show for all his effort, whereas on the cricket field or the rugby pitch, a single second of brilliant play could make a fellow the toast of the school.

  In the year since he effectively ended his academic career, Harry had not done much of any consequence, either to shame his family or to make them proud. Most of his time was spent on what he called “tinkering,” and what his father called “wasting time.” Since an early age he had been fascinated by machinery, and especially by vehicles—everything from windup toy helicopters to bicycles to electric submersible boats. His parents had tried diligently to steer him into more gentlemanly pursuits such as riding and shooting, but Harry continued to prefer gadgets to guns and horseless carriages to horses.

  The cab stopped before a narrow, two-story brick town house. As Harry helped his mother down, he called to the driver, “Would you mind a bit of advice?”

  “I s’pose not,” said the man, warily.

  “Harry!” whispered his mother.

  He ignored her. “If I were you,” he told the man, “I’d get myself a steam carriage, and soon; mark my word, within a year or two horse-drawn vehicles are going to be obsolete.”

  The driver was clever enough not to scoff at a customer outright, but he couldn’t help smiling at this absurd notion. “Are they, now? Vell, I’ll give that some thought, sir.” As Harry walked away, the driver said, “You’re forgettin’ one fing, sir.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “You ’aven’t paid the fare.”

  By the time Harry reached his room, Hudson, his father’s valet, had a warm bath waiting for him and a fresh suit of clothing laid out on his bed. Though Hudson was undeniably efficient, Harry sorely missed the old valet, Passepartout. The good-natured Frenchman had taught his charge how to juggle, how to fold a piece of paper into the shape of a frog, how to make and fire a slingshot—and how to glue the vase back together so that no one would even notice.

  But the things that Harry loved and admired most about Passepartout were the very things that led to his dismissal. As his parents explained it, they felt the valet was having a “disruptive influence” on Harry. Phileas Fogg had given Passepartout enough money to set up a small tobacco shop near St. James’s Square. The little Frenchman had found himself an equally good-natured wife and seemed quite content.

  Harry passed close by the shop on his way to the Reform Club, where he would have to confront his father and make a full confession. He considered stopping in to talk with his old friend for a moment, just to boost his own morale, but concluded it was best to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  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 suspec
ted 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

  OUR IMPULSIVE HERO MAKES A WAGER HE IS UNLIKELY TO WIN

  Harry 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.