Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ONE In which - HARRY FOGG BEHAVES RECKLESSLY AND PAYS THE PRICE
TWO In which - HARRY RELUCTANTLY FACES THE MUSIC
THREE In which - OUR IMPULSIVE HERO MAKES A WAGER HE IS UNLIKELY TO WIN
FOUR Showing that - ALTHOUGH PHILEAS FOGG DOES NOT DRIVE A MOTORCAR, HE DOES ...
FIVE In which - HARRY’S PLANS ARE SERIOUSLY ALTERED, IF NOT RUINED ALTOGETHER
SIX In which - AOUDA FOGG REVEALS AN UNPLEASANT SECRET FROM HER PAST
SEVEN In which - A BORING SPEECH IS AVOIDED BUT MORE SERIOUS TROUBLE IS NOT
EIGHT In which - THE STEAM CAR MAKES A GOOD SHOWING AND HARRY MAKES A FRIEND
NINE In which - JOHNNY IS UNUSUALLY FRIENDLY AND HARRY IS UNUSUALLY FLUSTERED
TEN In which - HARRY REVEALS HIS TRUE NAME AND ELIZABETH HER TRUE COLORS
ELEVEN In which - HARRY LOSES AN ARGUMENT AND THE FLASH GAINS A PASSENGER
TWELVE In which - THE MOTORISTS BEGIN THEIR JOURNEY IN EARNEST, OR AT LEAST IN AMERICA
THIRTEEN In which - EVIDENCE IS FOUND AND ACCUSATIONS MADE
FOURTEEN In which - THE FLASH CHALLENGES A LOCOMOTIVE
FIFTEEN In which - THE FLASH CHALLENGES ANOTHER MOTORCAR
SIXTEEN In which - THE ADAGE “THE RACE IS NOT TO THE SWIFT” IS PROVEN TRUE
SEVENTEEN In which - DISASTER LOOMS ON THE HORIZON
EIGHTEEN In which - THE CREW OF THE FLASH FIGHTS FIRE WITH FIRE
NINETEEN Showing that - HARRY, UNLIKE THE STEAM MAN, IS ONLY HUMAN
TWENTY In which - JOHNNY GETS AN IDEA AND CHARLES GETS INTO TROUBLE
TWENTY-ONE Showing that - HARRY HAS NO CORNER ON BEING RECKLESS
TWENTY-TWO In which - A TRAVELER AND A DAY ARE LOST
TWENTY-THREE In which - THE TRIO AGAIN BECOMES A QUARTET
TWENTY-FOUR In which - HARRY MAKES A PERFECT DELIVERY AND A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
TWENTY-FIVE In which - A REMEDY IS FOUND FOR HARRY’S IMPATIENCE
TWENTY-SEVEN In which - LONG-BURIED SECRETS ARE DUG UP
TWENTY-EIGHT In which - THE MOTORISTS ARE ONCE AGAIN ON SOLID GROUND
TWENTY-NINE In which - THE TRAVELERS DECIDE TO CROSS CHINA AFTER ALL
THIRTY In which - FOR A CHANGE, NOTHING UNFORTUNATE BEFALLS OUR PROTAGONISTS
THIRTY-ONE In which - AS WITH THE PROVERBIAL LOST HORSESHOE, A SINGLE NAIL ...
THIRTY-TWO Showing what - BECAME OF HARRY AND CHARLES
THIRTY-THREE In which - A FAMILIAR FACE UNEXPECTEDLY REAPPEARS
THIRTY-FOUR In which - THE TRUTH ABOUT ELIZABETH IS AT LAST REVEALED
THIRTY-FIVE In which - THE MOTORISTS AGAIN BECOME PRISONERS
THIRTY-SIX In which - THE TRAVELERS CHANGE CONTINENTS
THIRTY-SEVEN In which - CHARLES LEARNS A THING OR TWO
THIRTY-EIGHT In which - THE MOTORISTS ENCOUNTER A SEEMINGLY INSURMOUNTABLE OBSTACLE
THIRTY-NINE In which - THE FLASH NEARS THE FINISH LINE—AND THE DEADLINE
FORTY In which - THE LONG JOURNEY COMES TO AN END—BUT NOT THE STORY
FORTY-ONE In which - THE OUTCOME OF THE CONTEST IS DISPUTED AND DECIDED
DUTTON CHILDREN’S BOOKS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group
PUBLISHED BY THE PENGUIN GROUP
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa • Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2010 by Gary Blackwood
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
CIP Data is available.
Published in the United States by Dutton Children’s Books,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group 345 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014
www.penguin.com/youngreaders
eISBN : 978-1-101-44529-7
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Dante
whose pen is as quick as his hockey stick
AUTHOR’S NOTE
AS MANY READERS will realize, this is a sort of sequel to Jules Verne’s famous 1873 novel Around the World in 80 Days. Verne was inspired by a newspaper article claiming that because of recent improvements in transportation—the Transcontinental Railroad in America, the Suez Canal, the linking of the railways in India—a traveler could conceivably circle the globe in eighty days. Verne’s tale first appeared in serial form, in the French newspaper Le Temps. It was so popular that the newspaper’s circulation tripled; steamship lines offered Verne handsome sums to mention their company’s name in the story. He declined. Readers placed bets on whether or not Phileas Fogg would succeed; some even believed that Fogg and his journey were real, not fictional.
And, in fact, the novel inspired a spate of real-life attempts to duplicate Fogg’s feat. In 1889, Elizabeth Cochran (using the pen name Nellie Bly), a reporter for the New York World, managed it in just over seventy-two days. American businessman George Train set a new record of sixty-seven days in 1890, the year before our story takes place. So why, you may ask, does this journey take so much longer? Well, Nellie Bly and George Train and Phileas Fogg all traveled almost entirely by ship and by rail. Our hero, Harry, does it the hard way.
ONE In which
HARRY FOGG BEHAVES RECKLESSLY AND PAYS THE PRICE
Even on a bright Sunday morning, the holding cell at the Marylebone station house was not a pleasant place. Indeed, it was at its absolute worst on Sunday mornings, for it contained the dismal dregs of London society, scraped from the gutters and sidewalks the night before. Most were weak-willed working-men who, after drawing their paltry pay on Saturday afternoon, proceeded to squander the greater part of it at the nearest pub. They paid the true price later on, when they woke to find themselves sprawled on the floor of a dank, dirty cell, with their pockets empty and their heads pounding.
Locked up alongside these relatively harmless sots were actual criminals of every stripe, from the bug-hunters who robbed drunks of what few coins they had left, to cracksmen (burglars) and shofulmen (counterfeiters), to murderers with black blood still visible in the lines of their palms.
Certainly Maryleb
one jail was not the sort of place you would expect to encounter a young man of Harry Fogg’s caliber. His clothing, speech, and manners all marked him as well-bred and well-to-do. And in fact, if he had told the police who he was, they would surely have let him off with no more than a warning. His father’s name was still something of a household word, even though it was nearly two decades since Phileas Fogg had made his celebrated journey around the globe.
But Harry, anxious that no word of his predicament should reach his father’s ears, had given the arresting officer a false name: William G. Grace. Actually, the name was real enough, it’s just that it belonged to someone else—a noted cricket player who was one of Harry’s heroes. And so here he stood, in his stocking feet, on the grimy stone floor of the corridor, while the warder unlocked the barred door of the cell. Harry had been advised to leave all his valuables, including his hat, waistcoat, and shoes, at the desk; if he didn’t, the clerk said, they’d only be stolen by the other prisoners. And judging from the predatory looks cast at him by the men inside the cell, Harry suspected it was good advice.
Though it was barely midmorning, the jail was already stifling, and the stench of vomit and seldom-washed bodies nearly gagged Harry. Under his breath he cursed the drayman who, by carelessly pulling out in front of him, had caused the accident that brought him here. To be fair, though, it wasn’t the poor fellow’s fault; chances were, neither he nor his horse had ever encountered a steam-driven car before, or any sort of vehicle that moved faster than ten miles an hour—except a train, of course, and trains could be trusted not to come roaring down High Street at you.
No, Harry had to admit it was his own recklessness that had, as it so often did, landed him in hot water—or rather in warm beer, for that was what had spewed from the kegs when his motorcar struck the drayman’s wagon. Well, perhaps Johnny Shaugnessey was partly to blame, for not designing better brakes. Then again, Johnny had warned him that the car still needed work and Harry, impatient to try it out, had scoffed at him for being too cautious.
When the cell door clanged open, the hungover prisoners grimaced and groaned and clapped their hands to their heads. “Right, then!” shouted the warder, causing more grimaces and groans. “Them as was haled in for being drunk, if you’ve somebody to pay your fine, you’re free to go. I expect I’ll see most of you again next Saturday.” Those who had forgiving wives filed out of the cell, along with some who had had the sense to conceal a few coins in some private part of their person. As a scrawny fellow with bad teeth tried to exit, the warder held out his truncheon to stop him. “Not you, Swingle.”
“But I was drunk as a piper, Your Honor,” the man protested.
“You was also carrying a pocketful of jewelry. Get back in there, now.” The warder glanced at Harry and jerked his head toward the doorway. “You too.”
Harry stepped inside and the door closed behind him with a sound like the crack of doom. He swallowed hard and looked around at the half-dozen criminals who remained. To a man they stared back at him. Some seemed mainly curious, some suspicious, others glared at him with outright hostility. One burly man’s gaze was difficult to read, for he had but a single eye; the other had been gouged out, possibly as recently as the night before.
Harry scratched his head—could the vermin that infested these places have found him already?—and cleared his throat. “So,” he said, “when do they serve breakfast around here?”
The city of London has a well-earned reputation for being foggy, chilly, and damp. But sometimes in late summer it displays a different temperament altogether. This was one of those times. Gusts of hot, dry air swept through the streets, creating miniature cyclones of dust and grit that stung the eyes. They made fools of fashionable folk, tumbling gentlemen’s hats just out of their reach and turning ladies’ elegant parasols inside out.
Aouda Fogg, on her way up Marylebone Lane, just managed to keep her ivory tea hat in place by clutching the brim with both gloved hands, but could do nothing to keep the veil from whipping at her face. As she stepped from the curb and into the street, she reached down with one hand to lift the hem of her skirt. The wind took advantage of this unguarded moment to lift the hat from her head and send it sailing.
“Kosana!” she exclaimed as she watched it dance insolently along the cobbles. Though Aouda had studied English as a schoolgirl in Bombay and could speak it flawlessly, there were times when nothing but her native language could properly express her feelings. There were no men in sight whom she might prevail upon to rescue the hat, and it certainly wouldn’t do for her to go chasing after it herself. She could easily afford a replacement, of course, but it had been her favorite hat.
Feeling exposed without the veil to mask her face, she crossed to the station house. When she opened the door, the wind threatened to tear it from her hands but she wrestled it closed, in as ladylike a fashion as possible, then smoothed down her tousled dress and hair and approached the desk clerk. “Good afternoon, sir. I understand that my son is being detained here.”
The clerk gave her an impatient glance, then a second, more searching one. He was, she knew, taking note of her skin and of her hair, both of which were of a darker shade than is usually seen on English women. She longed for the lost hat and the veil. “We haven’t arrested any Indian boys lately,” said the clerk. “That’s what you are, I take it? An East Indian?”
“I grew up in India, yes. Now I am English.”
The clerk gave a slight, sarcastic grin. “If you say so.” He turned back to his paperwork.
“Would you please check to see if my son’s name is on your list of persons being detained here?”
“They’re called prisoners.”
“Then would you please check your list of prisoners?”
The man sighed. “All right, madam. What’s his name?”
“Harry. Harry Fogg.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s no Indian name.”
“Nevertheless.”
The clerk quickly scanned his blotter and shook his head. “No, there’s no such person here.”
“He is seventeen years old, perhaps five feet ten inches in height, with curly black hair—”
“I’ve told you, there’s no one by that name. It must have been some other station. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Aouda sensed that, like most Englishmen, he disapproved of anyone from a different culture or country—even one as nearby as Ireland or Scotland. But she also guessed that, like most Victorian men, he had been taught to treat all women with respect, and she played to that part of his nature. “Please, sir. I am a mother, asking for your help. I have reason to believe that my son is being held here. If you would kindly allow me to view the prisoners, I could see for myself whether he is among them.”
The clerk frowned at her for a long moment. “The jail is not a fit place for a woman.”
“If that is so,” replied Aouda, “then it is not a fit place for my son, either.”
The clerk shook his head again, but he called the warder. “Mr. Thompson, will you show this person to the holding cell?”
As they walked along the corridor, Aouda braced herself, expecting to find a scene of degradation and squalor. But nothing could have prepared her for what she actually witnessed when she stood before the bars of the cell.
Most of the prisoners were ranged in a half circle at one end of the cell. At the other end stood a huge one-eyed man, gripping a flat piece of wood perhaps three feet long—a bed slat, it appeared—as though about to hit something with it. Directly behind him were three more bed slats set upright with a fourth laid atop them.
In the center of the cell stood a barefooted Harry, making a windup motion with his arm. “All right, now, here it comes!” he called. A moment later he launched some sort of ball at the man wielding the bed slat. The man swatted the ball, which shot across the cell, past the other prisoners, and caromed off the wall.
“A solid shot!” exclaimed Harry. “Now run! Run!”
The man, still holding the bed slat, took off for the far wall, whacked the wood against it, then scrambled back to his original spot while another man retrieved the ball and flung it at the upright slats, missing them by a few inches.
“Two runs!” shouted Harry. “Good for you!”
While the one-eyed man thrust his arms in the air and roared in triumph, the others let loose a volley of raucous jeers and boos. Grinning, Harry flapped his hands in an attempt to calm them. “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he called. “You’ll all get your chance!” Just then he caught sight of the two figures who stood outside the cell and his face sobered. “Mother,” he said.
“What are you doing?” demanded Aouda.
“Teaching these men to play cricket,” said Harry, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I see. Well, they seem to be enjoying it. But it’s time for you to go.” She turned to the warder. “Will you please release my son? I will pay whatever fines are owed, and I will pay for any damages that—”
She was interrupted by a chorus of protest from the prisoners. “You can’t leave!” bellowed the one-eyed man. “We was just getting started!”
Harry shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, fellows. Another time, perhaps.”
“Not unless you get nicked again,” said the thief named Swingle, who then added confidentially, “Insulting an officer of the law is always good for a nice short sentence.” He handed Harry the cricket ball, which, it now became clear, was made of the boy’s rolled-up stockings. “Don’t forget these.”
As Harry started to exit, another prisoner, a stocky, bald-headed man, put a massive hand on his shoulder. “Wait a bit. That there’s your mum?”
“Yes, it is.”