FORTY-ONE In which
THE OUTCOME OF THE CONTEST IS DISPUTED AND DECIDED
Phileas Fogg, who until that moment had remained standing at the window, staring out at the courtyard, hands clasped behind his back in that stiff military manner of his, now turned and moved across the room to greet his son. He looked distinctly ill at ease, as though he were, for once in his life, at a loss as to how to act or what to say.
Harry thrust out a hand. His father, clearly relieved that an embrace was not called for, gratefully grasped it. “Welcome back,” he said. “And congratulations.”
“Will you have a drink with us?” asked Flanagan, one of the parties to the wager.
“No, thank you,” replied Harry. “My mother is waiting for me. As you know, she’s not permitted to enter the Club. So if you don’t mind, I’ll just collect my winnings and go.”
“Oh, stay and savor your victory for while,” said Flanagan. “Perhaps even gloat a bit.”
“Yes, do stay, Harry,” put in Dr. Doyle. “We’d all like to hear about your adventures.”
“I’m sure Charles will be happy to regale you with stories of the trip.”
“He’s already revealed that you were attacked by Luddites,” said Julius Hardiman. “Was anyone hurt?”
“I don’t believe they were Luddites, in fact,” replied Harry sharply. “I suspect they were paid to make certain the Flash was stopped short of the goal.”
“But who would do such a thing?” said Dr. Doyle.
In a quiet but commanding voice, Phileas Fogg said, “I believe I may have the answer to that.” He turned toward the window, where a figure had sat unnoticed until now, half concealed in a large armchair. “Mr. Drummond. You were telling me earlier how, once you had my son’s vehicle, you would use it as a prototype, to build and sell more motorcars. How disappointed you must be, to have your plans spoiled.”
The man who had loaned Harry the money in San Francisco rose slowly from the armchair and turned to the others, looking rather shamefaced. He spread his hands as if in surrender. “All right, I suppose there’s no use in my denying it. The Luddite thing was meant only to be a last resort; I stationed men at both ends of the street. But I never imagined that you might actually make it back in time.”
Harry could barely restrain himself from punching Drummond right between his ridiculous dundreary whiskers. “And I never imagined,” he said, “that you coveted our motorcar so much, you would have us beaten up in order to get it.”
“I instructed those men not to harm anyone. They didn’t, did they?”
“Not badly—except for the Flash, of course.”
Julius Hardiman set his drink down so firmly that the glass threatened to shatter. “I’ll thank you to leave, now, Drummond,” he said coldly. “This is a gentleman’s club.”
“If he may stay just a moment longer,” said Harry, “I’d like to pay back the thousand pounds I owe him—minus the cost of repairing the Flash, of course. But before I can do that, I must ask you three to make good your wagers.”
Hardiman, Flanagan, and Sullivan traded uncomfortable glances. “I’m afraid,” said Flanagan, “that I don’t have that much on me. Frankly, I didn’t anticipate actually having to pay up. I hope you will accept a check?”
Before Harry could reply, Sullivan the banker spoke up. “Just one moment, gentlemen. There’s a small matter that must be settled first.”
“We followed the rules to the letter,” put in Charles, heatedly. “What objection could you possibly have?”
Sullivan turned to him with a smug, superior smile. “The rules state that the motorcar must travel the entire distance under its own power.”
“And so she did, except when crossing oceans, lakes, and rivers.”
“Are you prepared to swear to that?” asked Sullivan.
“Yes. That is, I—” Charles broke off and gave Harry a desperate glance.
“Isn’t it true,” Sullivan went on, “that between Rawlins, Wyoming, and San Francisco, California, you were absent from the motorcar—kicked off it, in fact, I believe?”
“How did you—” Charles turned to Drummond. “You told him.”
Drummond smiled and shrugged.
“Is this true, Charles?” asked Hardiman.
Scowling, Charles grudgingly muttered, “Yes, sir.”
“So, you see,” said Sullivan, “we have no way of knowing whether or not there were any infractions of the rules during that time.”
“You have my word on it, sir!” said Harry, his fists clenched in anger.
“I’m afraid that’s not enough,” replied Sullivan.
Phileas Fogg stepped forward, toe-to-toe and face-to-face with the banker, and said coolly, “If you insult a member of my family, Mr. Sullivan, you insult me. I demand satisfaction.”
Sullivan gave a nervous, incredulous laugh. “Are you challenging me to a duel, Mr. Fogg?”
“That is the traditional manner in which gentlemen settle their disputes.”
The banker shrank back slightly. “See here, I hardly think that—”
He was interrupted by a disturbance in the hall. A young woman in a long overcoat stormed into the library, shedding drops of water on the expensive Oriental carpet. “I knew it!” she said. “I knew they’d find some objection, some way of making sure they didn’t have to pay up!”
“Elizabeth!” cried Charles. “Where did you come from?”
“I’ve been standing in the hall, listening to this—this load of horse manure!”
The doorman, who had entered in her wake, said, “I’m very sorry, sirs. I tried to prevent her from—”
“Are you aware,” said Julius Hardiman, “that women are not permitted in this club?”
“Oh, that’s another load of horse manure! I am a reporter, and I intend to let my readers know, in great detail, the lengths to which three supposedly respectable businessmen will go to try and weasel out of paying their debts.”
“We are simply trying to make certain that the rules were adhered to,” protested Sullivan. “And the fact is, for a considerable part of the journey, our impartial observer was not present in the car.”
Elizabeth frowned thoughtfully. “That is true,” she admitted. Then, slowly, the frown metamorphosed into a sweet, sly smile. “However,” she said, “I was present during that time, and I give you my word that the Flash traveled every inch of the distance under her own power. Now, I know that none of you self-professed gentlemen would be so unchivalrous as to question the word of a lady.”
Sullivan’s mouth moved as though he were about to reply, but there was nothing he could say. He was well and truly defeated, and he knew it. He simply sighed. As though they had been practicing the maneuver, he and his friends reached simultaneously for their check-books. Harry held up a hand to stop them. “One moment. To paraphrase Mr. Sullivan, I have no way of knowing whether or not your checks will be valid. I am, however, perfectly willing to wait here while you withdraw the money from your bank accounts.”
When the three businessmen had departed, muttering indignant phrases unfit for a lady’s ears, Harry turned to Elizabeth. “Thank you,” he said.
She shook her head. “No. Don’t thank me. It doesn’t begin to make up for the trouble I caused you.”
“Well, it was hardly your fault,” said Harry, “that the Graphic sent you off on another assignment. Incidentally, how were the whist championships? Riveting, I expect.”
Though Elizabeth was momentarily baffled, she did fine job of concealing it. “No, actually,” she said, “they were rather tedious. It’s a pity the players aren’t permitted to place bets. That might have made things a bit more interesting.” And though she was grateful to him for keeping her secret, she was careful to conceal that, too. All she did, before she turned to go, was to place a hand briefly and gently on Harry’s arm. But he understood.
Phileas Fogg approached his son. “Before you spend all the money on building another motorcar, please remember that a thousand pounds of it is to go back into your trust fund.”
Harry grinned. “Yes, sir.” The library clock chimed eleven. “I’m afraid I’ve played havoc with your schedule, Father. You should have left for the dining room ten minutes ago.”
“Yes, well, I thought perhaps I’d dine with you and your mother at home, for a change. It will give us an opportunity to hear some of your adventures.”
“All right. There’re a few adventures, however, that are best left untold, for Mother’s sake.”
“Yes,” said Phileas Fogg. “No doubt you’re right.”
“And perhaps,” said Harry pointedly, “you will tell us some of your adventures, in turn.”
“But you’ve heard about my journey a hundred times.”
“I was not referring to your journey, sir. I meant your seafaring adventures.”
For the first time in Harry’s memory, a full-fledged look of surprise came over his father’s face.
“You see,” said Harry, “I met Captain Keough.”
“Ah. Well, perhaps some of those adventures should remain untold, as well. For your mother’s sake.”
“Fair enough. I’ll see you at home, then?”
“Actually,” said Phileas Fogg, “I thought I’d help you with the Flash—having her towed, or whatever is necessary.”
Now it was Harry’s turn to look surprised. “Of course. I didn’t suppose you’d want to.”
“If motorcars are to be the future of transportation,” said his father, “it would behoove us all to learn a little something about them, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do. When we’ve got her running again, perhaps you’d like to take a turn at the wheel?”
Phileas Fogg gave a small, wry smile. “I don’t believe I care to know that much about them.”
 
Not wanting to lead a flock of newspaper reporters to Johnny, Harry stored the motorcar in a livery stable near Savile Row. A week or so later, when he was sure that the newspapers were done with him, he had the Flash towed—embarrassingly enough, by a team of horses—to the blacksmith shop in York Court, where he found Johnny hard at work cleaning up the charred remains of his shed. Harry had intended to share the four thousand pounds that remained, but Johnny refused. “You’ll need that money,” he said. “For engineering school.”
Harry gave him a doubtful look. “You really think I should?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, I could give it a try.” Harry scratched his head. “Do you think any decent school will have me?”
“Of course,” said Johnny. “You’re the famous Harry Fogg.”
“But what about our plans to build a new, improved version of the Flash?”
“We’ll work nights,” said Johnny. “And weekends.” He sat on the running board and pulled from his trouser pocket a piece of paper covered with mysterious scrawls and sketches. “Want to see my drawings?”
“Does Ganesha have an elephant’s head?”
“I don’t know,” said Johnny.
“Well, he does. Now, let’s see what you’ve got.” Though Johnny was not the most communicative person in the world, nor the most skilled draftsman, Harry managed to decipher his drawings and his halting explanation. The new Flash would be powered, like the car in Iowa, by electricity. But, unlike Morrison’s vehicle, theirs could travel long distances, for the batteries would be recharged by a small, extremely efficient engine like the one patented seventy-five years earlier by another Scotsman named Stirling. Harry wasn’t sure precisely how the Stirling engine worked, only that it needed no boiler and burned a fraction of the fuel used by a steam engine.
“This is brilliant, lad!” he said. “When do we start on her?”
“After we clean this up,” said Johnny. “And build another workshop.”
“Right.” Harry doffed his coat and picked up a shovel. “Listen, Johnny, I never apologized to you for selling the Flash to Drummond.”
“You didn’t sell her.”
“Well, I nearly did. Anyway, I’m sorry.”
Johnny shrugged. “If you hadn’t, we’d still be in San Francisco.” He set to work shoveling ashes and debris into a cart and Harry followed suit.
They got a welcome respite when Charles Hardiman turned up, carrying the latest edition of the London Daily Graphic. “Have you fellows seen this?”
“Seen what?”
“A very extensive and somewhat overwrought account of our journey, written by a certain Miss Annie Laurie.”
“Overwrought?”
Charles fished his eyeglasses from his coat pocket. “Listen to this: ‘It was at this point that your reporter was compelled to part company with Messrs. Fogg, Hardiman, and Shaugnessey. Even now, she cannot write of her reasons for leaving without suffering acute embarrassment, and yet she feels she owes her loyal readers some explanation of her actions.’”
Harry glanced at Johnny, who had ceased working and was listening intently. “Um, Charles, I think I’d prefer to read it for myself.” Perhaps Elizabeth needed to clear her conscience, but there was no need for Johnny to hear it.
With a puzzled look, Charles surrendered the paper. “Yes, all right, but . . .” He trailed off as Harry frowned and gave a slight shake of his head.
Harry found the passage and, sitting on the running board of the Flash, scanned it silently:
. . . owes her loyal readers some explanation of her actions. To put it as delicately and modestly as possible, the situation was similar to that of the familiar syndrome known as shipboard romance . That is, the close proximity into which we were necessarily thrown had apparently led to amorous feelings on the part of certain members of the crew, and this unfortunately resulted in another sort of contest, with this reporter’s affections as the prize. When the rivalry threatened to erupt into outright hostility, your humble correspondent concluded that it was best for all concerned if she withdrew from the expedition.
Harry grinned and shook his head incredulously. “Well. There’s no question that Annie Laurie will become a household name. She clearly knows how to appeal to her readers.”
“Someone told me that, since her dispatches began appearing in the Graphic, the paper’s circulation has nearly doubled.”
“What does she say about us?” asked Johnny.
“She says,” replied Harry, “that we were the cleverest and most amusing of companions, and that, when we make our next journey, she will insist upon coming with us.”
“Our next journey?” said Charles.
“To test the new, improved model,” said Johnny.
“What sort of improvements do you mean to make?”
“Actually,” said Harry, “we were thinking of building an entirely new and revolutionary sort of vehicle. It will consist of a large covered wagon—”
“A covered wagon?”
“Yes, and it will pulled by a giant steam-powered mechanical man.”
“Ho, ho. Very amusing.”
“Well, I wasn’t certain you’d understand if I told you we’re going to use a Stirling engine.”
“I know what a Stirling engine is,” said Charles, a bit indignantly.
“Really? Then perhaps you’ll explain it to me.”
“It’s . . . well, it’s an engine that . . . that was designed by Stirling.”
“Thank you for that insight.”
“You’re welcome. See here, Harry, are you looking for investors?”
“Don’t tell me your father wants to get into the motorcar business.”
“No. Despite everything, he’s still convinced that cars are unreliable and impractical. But I have some money of my own, and I’d like to help finance your new, improved model.”
“Are you certain? There’s no guarantee that you’d make back your investment, you know.”
“I’m willing to take that risk.”
Harry glanced at him in surprise. “I believe you’ve learned a new word, Charles.”
“Risk, you mean?”
“Yes.” Harry scratched his head thoughtfully. “Has it ever occurred to you,” he said, “how some people—your father, for instance—are like locomotives? Their mind travels on a single set of tracks—tracks that were laid down, often very long ago, by someone else. And then others are like motorcars; they choose their own path.”
Now Charles was the one to look surprised. “That’s actually a rather profound thought, Harry.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’ve had a number of them lately. It must be all that meditation I’ve been doing.” Harry got to his feet. “Well, that’s enough thinking. Time to get back to work. Here.” He thrust his shovel into Charles’s hands. “If you really want to be a partner in this business, old chum, you’ll have to start from the ground up.”