Around the World in Eighty Days

If you had walked down Saville Row in London in the year 1872, you might have watched him step out of his door. You would have seen a gentleman who looked exactly like a clock that had somehow been turned into a man. Phileas Fogg did not look to the left, nor did he look to the right. He walked with a stride so mathematically precise that his boots seemed to measure the pavement in equal, unvarying inches. He was handsome, tall, and wealthy, though no one knew exactly how he had made his fortune. He did not speak a word more than was necessary. He never seemed to hurry, yet he was never late. His life was a silent, beautifully oiled machine. He lived by the minute, the second, the tick. On the morning of the 2nd of October, Mr. Fogg sat in his drawing room. His previous valet had just been dismissed for a terrible, unforgivable crime. He had brought Mr. Fogg's shaving water at 84 degrees Fahrenheit instead of 86. A knock came at the door, and a young man with a bright face, curly brown hair, and an energetic bounce in his step entered. "You are the new valet?" asked Mr. Fogg, his eyes fixed on a heavy grandfather clock. "Yes, monsieur," the young man replied with a warm, musical accent. "My name is Jean Passepartout. I am a Frenchman, and I must confess, I have lived a very lively life. I have been a circus rider, a gymnast, a tightrope walker, and even a fireman in Paris. But I am tired of excitement, monsieur. I have heard that you are the most orderly, quiet gentleman in all of England, and I have come here to find peace. I wish only to be a machine, just like you." Mr. Fogg smiled a tiny, almost invisible smile. "You have been well informed," he said. "Do you know my conditions?" "Yes, monsieur. Everything must be done on the second." "Good. Look at your watch. What time is it?" Passepartout pulled a massive silver watch from his pocket. "It is 22 minutes past 11, monsieur." "Your watch is slow," said Mr. Fogg. "Oh, monsieur, that is impossible!" "You are four minutes slow," Mr. Fogg repeated calmly. "It does not matter, so long as you know it. From this moment, 29 minutes past 11, Wednesday, the 2nd of October, you are in my service." Mr. Fogg stood up, took his hat, and walked out of the house to go to his club, leaving his new servant to marvel at this silent clockwork master. Passepartout was delighted. He wandered through the house, admiring the perfect order. Every shoe was numbered, every coat had its season, every day's schedule was written on a card. "This is exactly what I wanted," Passepartout thought, rubbing his hands together. "A quiet life, no surprises, no adventures." But Passepartout had not been in the house for nine hours when the world turned upside down. At the Reform Club, a grand stone building where London's wealthiest men gathered, Phileas Fogg sat at his usual table, playing a game of cards called whist with his regular partners. As they dealt the cards, they discussed the morning news. A daring thief had just stolen 55,000 pounds from the Great Bank of England and vanished into thin air. "The world is so large," said one of the card players, a banker named Gauthier Ralph. "The robber could be anywhere. It is easy to hide." "The world is no longer as large as it was," Phileas Fogg said, placing a card calmly on the table. "What do you mean?" Ralph laughed. "Has the earth shrunk?" "It has," said Fogg. "A man can now travel around the entire globe in much less time than in the old days. Now that the railway across India is finished, the journey can be made in 80 days." "80 days!" cried another player, Andrew Stewart. "That is ridiculous. On paper perhaps, but you do not count the bad weather, the shipwrecks, the train delays, the obstacles of nature." "I count them all," said Fogg. "I would like to see you do it," Stewart challenged. "I will…

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