In which Phileas Fogg becomes involved in a conversation that could prove costly to him

Phileas Fogg had left his home in Savile Row at half past eleven and, after putting his right foot in front of his left foot 575 times and his left foot in front of his right foot 576 times, he reached the Reform Club, a huge building in Pall Mall that had cost no less than £120,000 to construct.

Phileas Fogg went immediately to the dining-room, with its nine windows opening on to an attractive garden with trees that had already turned an autumn brown. There he sat down at his usual table where his place was already set. His lunch consisted of a starter, followed by poached fish served with a first-rate Reading sauce, a blood-red steak accompanied by mushroom ketchup, a rhubarb and gooseberry pie and a slice of Cheshire cheese, all of which was washed down by several cups of tea, an excellent variety that had been specially picked for the pantry of the Reform Club.

At forty-seven minutes past midday, the gentleman got up and walked over to the main drawing-room, a magnificent place decorated with richly framed paintings. There a servant handed him an uncut copy of The Times, which Phileas Fogg proceeded to carefully unfold with a skilfulness that demonstrated a considerable familiarity with this delicate operation. Phileas Fogg continued reading this newspaper until three forty-five, following it with the Standard, which took him up to dinner. This meal followed the same pattern as lunch, except for the addition of ‘Royal British sauce’.

At twenty to six the gentleman appeared again in the main drawing-room and engrossed himself in the Morning Chronicle.

Half an hour later, various members of the Reform Club came in and went up to the fireplace, where a blazing coal fire was burning. They were Mr Phileas Fogg’s usual partners, fanatical whist players like him: the engineer Andrew Stuart, the bankers John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the brewer Thomas Flanagan and Gauthier Ralph, one of the directors of the Bank of England – all wealthy and distinguished figures, even for a club whose members included the leading lights in industry and banking.

‘So Ralph,’ inquired Thomas Flanagan, ‘what’s the latest on this business of the robbery?’

‘Well,’ replied Andrew Stuart, ‘the Bank isn’t going to get its money back.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Gauthier Ralph, ‘I hope that we will be able to get our hands on the criminal. Police detectives, the best in the business, have been sent to America and Europe, to all the main ports of entry and exit, and it will be extremely difficult for this person to escape them.’

‘So you have the description of the thief, do you?’ asked Andrew Stuart.

‘In the first place he’s not a thief,’ Gauthier Ralph replied in all seriousness.

‘What, you don’t call someone who’s got away with £55,000 in banknotes a thief?’

‘No,’ replied Gauthier Ralph.

‘So he’s a businessman, is he?’ said John Sullivan.

‘The Morning Chronicle tells us that he’s a gentleman.’

The person who gave this reply was none other than Phileas Fogg, whose head emerged at that point from behind the pile of paper surrounding him. At the same time Phileas Fogg greeted his colleagues, who greeted him in turn.

The incident under discussion, which was a subject of heated debate in the various British newspapers, had occurred three days earlier, on 29 September. A wad of banknotes, amounting to the enormous sum of £55,000, had been taken from the desk of the principal cashier of the Bank of England.

To anyone who expressed surprise that such a theft could have taken place so easily, the deputy governor Gauthier Ralph merely replied that at that moment the cashier was busy recording a taking of three shillings and sixpence and that he couldn’t keep an eye on everything.

But it should be pointed out here – and this makes what happened somewhat easier to explain – that this admirable institution called the Bank of England seems to be extremely concerned for the dignity of the public. There are no guards, no former soldiers and no grilles. Gold, silver and banknotes are on open display at the mercy, so to speak, of all-comers. It would be unthinkable to question the honesty of any member of the public. One of the keenest observers of English society even recounts the following anecdote: one day when he happened to be in one of the rooms in the Bank, he was eager to have a close-up view of a gold ingot, weighing between seven and eight pounds, which was lying on the cashier’s desk for all to see. He picked up the ingot, examined it, handed it to the person next to him, who in turn passed it on, the result being that the gold bar went down to the end of a dark corridor only to come back to its original place half an hour later, without the cashier even looking up.

But on 29 September things didn’t quite turn out the same way. The wad of banknotes did not come back, and when the magnificent clock above the cash desk struck five o’clock, closing time, all the Bank of England could do was to register in its accounts a loss of £55,000.

Once the theft had been duly reported, police detectives, the pick of the profession, were dispatched to the main ports, Liverpool, Glasgow, Le Havre, Suez, Brindisi and New York, with the promise of a reward of £2,000 plus five per cent of the amount recovered if they were successful. While waiting for the results of the investigation that had got under way immediately, the inspectors were given the task of keeping a careful eye on all passengers entering or leaving these ports.

As it happened, just as the Morning Chronicle claimed, there was reason to believe that the person responsible for the theft was not a member of the criminal fraternity. During that day of 29 September, a well-dressed, well-mannered and distinguished-looking gentleman had been noticed pacing around in the cash room, the scene of the crime. The investigation had made it possible to put together quite an accurate description of the gentleman and it had then been sent immediately to every detective in the United Kingdom and on the continent. Some wise souls – and Gauthier Ralph was one of them – therefore felt justified in thinking that the thief would not get away.

As can well be imagined, this incident was on everyone’s lips in London and the whole country. It was the subject of heated debate, with differing opinions on the chances of success for the Metropolitan Police. It should come as no surprise, then, to hear the members of the Reform Club discussing the same issue, especially as one of the Bank’s deputy governors was among their number.

The highly respected Gauthier Ralph had no intention of doubting the success of the police investigation, since he considered that the reward on offer should act as a considerable incentive to the energy and competence of the police. But his colleague Andrew Stuart was far from being so confident. And so the discussion continued between these gentlemen as they sat at the whist table, Stuart partnering Flanagan and Fallentin partnering Phileas Fogg. During the game the players didn’t speak, but between the rubbers the conversation resumed, more lively than before.

‘I maintain,’ said Andrew Stuart, ‘that the thief is likely to get away with it, since he’s bound to be a smart individual.’

‘Come off it,’ replied Ralph. ‘There isn’t a single country where he can hide.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Where do you expect him to go?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Andrew Stuart, ‘but after all, the world’s a big place.’

‘That used to be true,’ said Phileas Fogg quietly. Then he added, ‘It’s your turn to cut, sir,’ showing the cards to Thomas Flanagan.

The discussion was broken off during the rubber. But soon Andrew Stuart brought the subject up again:

‘What do you mean “used to be true”? Has the earth got smaller, by any chance?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Gauthier Ralph. ‘I agree with Mr Fogg. The earth has got smaller because you can now travel around it ten times as quickly as a hundred years ago. And, in relation to this particular case, that’s what will speed up the police inquiries.’

‘And that’s what will make it easier for the thief to escape as well!’

‘Your turn to play, Mr Stuart,’ said Phileas Fogg.

But the sceptical Stuart was not convinced, and when the game was over he added, ‘I must admit, Ralph, that you’ve got a funny way of saying that the world has become smaller! Just because you can now go around the world in three months –’

‘In a mere eighty days,’ said Phileas Fogg.

‘Quite right, dear sirs,’ added John Sullivan, ‘eighty days since the opening of the section between Rothal and Allahabad on the Indian Peninsular Railway. This is how the Morning Chronicle worked it out:

From London to Suez via the Mont Cenis tunnel3 and Brindisi, by railway and steamship

7 days

From Suez to Bombay, by steamship

13 days

From Bombay to Calcutta, by railway

3 days

From Calcutta to Hong Kong, by steamship

13 days

From Hong Kong to Yokohama (Japan), by steamship

6 days

From Yokohama to San Francisco, by steamship

22 days

From San Francisco to New York, by railroad4

7 days

From New York to London, by steamship and railway

9 days

Total

80 days’

‘Yes, eighty days,’ exclaimed Andrew Stuart, accidentally trumping a winning card, ‘but that doesn’t take account of bad weather, adverse winds, shipwrecks, derailments, etc.’

‘It does include them,’ replied Phileas Fogg while continuing to play because by now the whist was taking second place to the discussion.

‘Even if the natives of India or North America take up the rails?’ exclaimed Andrew Stuart. ‘Even if they stop the trains, ransack the wagons and scalp the travellers?’

‘Including all that,’ replied Phileas Fogg, laying out his hand and adding, ‘Two winning trumps.’

Andrew Stuart, whose turn it was to deal, picked up the cards and said, ‘In theory you are right, Mr Fogg, but in practice …’

‘In practice too, Mr Stuart.’

‘I’d like to see you prove it.’

‘That depends only on you. Let’s do it together.’

‘Heaven forbid,’ exclaimed Stuart, ‘but I’m quite prepared to bet £4,000 that such a journey undertaken in these circumstances is impossible.’

‘Quite possible, on the contrary,’ replied Mr Fogg.

‘Well, try it, then.’

‘To go around the world in eighty days?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m quite prepared to.’

‘When?’

‘Straightaway.’

‘This is madness,’ exclaimed Andrew Stuart, who was beginning to get annoyed at his partner’s persistence. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the game.’

‘Deal the cards again, then,’ replied Phileas Fogg, ‘because there’s been a misdeal.’

Andrew Stuart’s hands trembled as he took back the cards, and then he suddenly put them down on the table, saying, ‘Well, all right, Mr Fogg, all right. I’ll bet £4,000.’

‘My dear Stuart,’ said Fallentin, ‘calm down. You must be joking.’

‘When I talk about betting,’ replied Andrew Stuart, ‘I’m never joking.’

‘I accept,’ said Mr Fogg. Then he turned towards his colleagues:

‘I have £20,000 deposited with Baring Brothers. I’m quite prepared to risk them …’

‘£20,000!’ exclaimed John Sullivan. ‘£20,000 that you could lose as a result of an unexpected delay!’

‘There’s no such thing as the unexpected,’ was all Phileas Fogg said in reply.

‘But Mr Fogg, this period of eighty days is calculated only as the minimum time.’

‘A minimum put to good use is enough for anything.’

‘But in order not to exceed it, you have to change with mathematical precision from railway to steamship and from steamship to railway.’

‘I will do it with mathematical precision.’

‘You must be joking!’

‘A true Englishman never jokes about something as serious as a bet,’ replied Phileas Fogg. ‘I bet £20,000 against anyone that I will go around the world in eighty days or less, in other words 1,920 hours or 115,200 minutes. Do you accept?’

‘We do,’ replied Messrs Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan and Ralph after agreeing among themselves.

‘Good,’ said Mr Fogg. ‘The Dover train leaves at eight fortyfive. I shall be on it.’

‘On it tonight?’ asked Stuart.

‘Yes, tonight,’ replied Phileas Fogg. ‘So,’ he added as he consulted a pocket calendar, ‘since today is Wednesday 2 October, I must be back in London in this very drawing-room in the Reform Club on Saturday 21 December at eight forty-five in the evening. Otherwise, the £20,000 now in my account with Baring Brothers will legally be yours to share. Here’s a cheque for the same amount.’

The terms of the bet were drawn up and signed on the spot by the six parties concerned. Phileas Fogg remained calm and collected. He had certainly not made the bet in order to win money and he had only committed these £20,000 – half of his fortune – because he expected to have to spend the other half on carrying out this difficult, not to say impossible, mission. His opponents, for their part, seemed uncomfortable, not because of the amount of money at stake but because they felt embarrassed about the one-sidedness of the arrangement.

Seven o’clock then struck. They offered Mr Fogg the possibility of stopping the game to enable him to prepare his departure.

‘I’m always ready,’ replied this impassive gentleman and, handing out the cards, he said, ‘Diamonds are trumps. Your turn, Mr Stuart.’