Around the World in Eighty Days Read Free Page A

methodical gentleman retired.
    Mr. Fogg’s wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and the same system was applied to the master’s shoes. In short, the house in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness, comfort, and method idealized. There was no study, nor were there books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout found
neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere; everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits.
    Having scrutinized the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, “This is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don’t mind serving a machine.”

3
    In which a conversation takes place which seems likely to cost Phileas Fogg dear
    PHILEAS FOGG, HAVING SHUT THE DOOR OF HIS HOUSE AT half-past eleven, and having put his right foot before his left five hundred and seventy-five times, and his left foot before his right five hundred and seventy-six times, reached the Reform Club, an imposing edifice in Pall Mall, which could not have cost less than three millions. He repaired at once to the dining-room, the nine windows of which open upon a tasteful garden, where the trees were already gilded with an autumn colouring; and took his place at the habitual table, the cover of which had already been laid for him. His breakfast consisted of a side-dish, a broiled fish with Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of roast beef garnished with mushrooms, a rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a morsel of Cheshire cheese, the whole being washed down with several cups of tea, for which the Reform is famous. He rose at thirteen minutes to one, and directed his steps towards the large hall, a sumptuous apartment adorned with lavishly-framed paintings. A flunkey handed him an uncut Times , which he proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed familiarity with this delicate operation. The perusal of this paper
absorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, whilst the Standard , his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour. Dinner passed as breakfast had done, and Mr. Fogg reappeared in the reading-room and sat down to the Pall Mall at twenty minutes before six. Half an hour later several members of the Reform came in and drew up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were Mr. Fogg’s usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of England;—all rich and highly respectable personages, even in a club which comprises the princes of English trade and finance.
    “Well, Ralph,” said Thomas Flanagan, “what about that robbery?”
    “Oh,” replied Stuart, “the bank will lose the money.”
    “On the contrary,” broke in Ralph, “I hope we may put our hands on the robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all the principal ports of America and the Continent, and he’ll be a clever fellow if he slips through their fingers.”
    “But have you got the robber’s description?” asked Stuart.
    “In the first place, he is no robber at all,” returned Ralph, positively.
    “What! a fellow who makes off with fifty-five thousand pounds, no robber?”
    “No.”
    “Perhaps he’s a manufacturer, then.”
    “The Daily Telegraph says that he is a gentleman.”
    It was Phileas Fogg, whose head now emerged from behind his newspaper, who made