Around the World in 100 Days

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?”

“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?”

“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?”

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.”

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 suspected 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?”