Jules Verne Read Free Page A

to be got out of those people; the carriage is not a carriage
for them, it is a bed.
    In front of me was quite a different type with nothing of the Oriental
about it; thirty-two to thirty-five years old, face with a reddish
beard, very much alive in look, nose like that of a dog standing at
point, mouth only too glad to talk, hands free and easy, ready for a
shake with anybody; a tall, vigorous, broad-shouldered, powerful man.
By the way in which he settled himself and put down his bag, and
unrolled his traveling rug of bright-hued tartan, I had recognized the
Anglo-Saxon traveler, more accustomed to long journeys by land and sea
than to the comforts of his home, if he had a home. He looked like a
commercial traveler. I noticed that his jewelry was in profusion; rings
on his fingers, pin in his scarf, studs on his cuffs, with photographic
views in them, showy trinkets hanging from the watch-chain across his
waistcoat. Although he had no earrings and did not wear a ring at his
nose I should not have been surprised if he turned out to be an
American—probably a Yankee.
    That is my business. To find out who are my traveling companions,
whence they come, where they go, is that not the duty of a special
correspondent in search of interviews? I will begin with my neighbor in
front of me. That will not be difficult, I imagine. He is not dreaming
or sleeping, or looking out on the landscape lighted by the last rays
of the sun. If I am not mistaken he will be just as glad to speak to me
as I am to speak to him—and reciprocally.
    I will see. But a fear restrains me. Suppose this American—and I am
sure he is one—should also be a special, perhaps for the
World
or
the
New York Herald
, and suppose he has also been ordered off to do
this Grand Asiatic. That would be most annoying! He would be a rival!
    My hesitation is prolonged. Shall I speak, shall I not speak? Already
night has begun to fall. At last I was about to open my mouth when my
companion prevented me.
    "You are a Frenchman?" he said in my native tongue.
    "Yes, sir," I replied in his.
    Evidently we could understand each other.
    The ice was broken, and then question followed on question rather
rapidly between us. You know the Oriental proverb:
    "A fool asks more questions in an hour than a wise man in a year."
    But as neither my companion nor myself had any pretensions to wisdom we
asked away merrily.
    "
Wait a bit
," said my American.
    I italicize this phrase because it will recur frequently, like the pull
of the rope which gives the impetus to the swing.
    "
Wait a bit
! I'll lay ten to one that you are a reporter!"
    "And you would win! Yes. I am a reporter sent by the
Twentieth
Century
to do this journey."
    "Going all the way to Pekin?"
    "To Pekin."
    "So am I," replied the Yankee.
    And that was what I was afraid of.
    "Same trade?" said I indifferently.
    "No. You need not excite yourself. We don't sell the same stuff, sir."
    "Claudius Bombarnac, of Bordeaux, is delighted to be on the same road
as—"
    "Fulk Ephrinell, of the firm of Strong, Bulbul & Co., of New York City,
New York, U.S.A."
    And he really added U.S.A.
    We were mutually introduced. I a traveler in news, and he a traveler
in—In what? That I had to find out.
    The conversation continues. Ephrinell, as may be supposed, has been
everywhere—and even farther, as he observes. He knows both Americas
and almost all Europe. But this is the first time he has set foot in
Asia. He talks and talks, and always jerks in
Wait a bit
, with
inexhaustible loquacity. Has the Hunson the same properties as the
Garonne?
    I listen to him for two hours. I have hardly heard the names of the
stations yelled out at each stop, Saganlong, Poily, and the others. And
I really should have liked to examine the landscape in the soft light
of the moon, and made a few notes on the road.
    Fortunately my fellow traveler had already crossed these eastern parts
of Georgia. He pointed out the spots of interest, the villages, the
watercourses, the