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 wager 4,000 pounds that such a journey is impossible."
"It is quite possible," Fogg replied, his voice as cool as a winter morning.
"I will bet 20,000 pounds, half of my fortune, that I can make the tour of the world in 80 days or less.
That is 1920 hours, or 115,200 minutes.
Do you accept?"
The other gentlemen looked at one another.
20,000 pounds was an enormous sum, a fortune that could buy a country estate.
Seeing that Fogg was entirely serious, they agreed.
Phileas Fogg stood up.
"The train for Dover leaves tonight at a quarter to nine.
I shall be on it.
Today is Wednesday, the 2nd of October.
I must return to this very room, the Reform Club, on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter to nine in the evening.
If I am not here, this check for 20,000 pounds is yours."
At 8:00 that evening, Passepartout was busy unpacking his few belongings in his new quiet room, when Mr. Fogg walked through the front door.
This was highly unusual.
Mr. Fogg never returned before midnight.
"Passepartout," Fogg said, his voice showing no excitement whatsoever.
"We are leaving in 10 minutes."
"Where are we going, monsieur?" Passepartout asked, his eyes wide.
"We are going around the world."
Passepartout's jaw dropped.
His hands began to shake.
"Around, around the world?"
"In 80 days," Fogg said.
"We have no time to lose.
Pack a small carpet bag, only two shirts and three pairs of socks for each of us.
We will buy our clothes as we go.
Bring my heavy coat and a traveling rug, and this."
Fogg handed Passepartout a thick leather bag.
Inside were 20,000 pounds in brand new bank notes, the other half of Fogg's fortune, meant to pay for their transport, their food, and whatever emergencies might arise.
Before Passepartout could even find his breath, they were in a cab, rushing through the foggy London streets toward the station.
At the platform, Fogg purchased two first-class tickets to Paris.
Passepartout sat in the carriage, his head spinning.
He had wanted a quiet life of perfect routine.
Instead, he was being swept away into the night, chasing the wind across the face of the earth.
The great race had begun, and it was a story of speed, steel, and steam.
This story of the great race against time was first imagined in France, written by a wonderful weaver of adventures named Jules Verne.
In France, they know that a journey is not just about the miles you cover, but the spirit in which you travel.
As the train rattled south toward the coast of France, Phileas Fogg sat perfectly still, writing the date in a small notebook.
He had divided his notebook into columns, one for the days he spent, one for the days he had left, and one to show whether he was gaining time or losing it.
To Fogg, the world was not a place of beauty or mystery.
It was a giant game board, and his only opponent was the ticking clock.
From Paris, they took a train across the snow-capped Alps to the port of Brindisi in Italy.
There, they boarded a grand steamship named the Mongolia, which carried them across the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea, through the newly opened Suez Canal, and down into the scorching heat of the Red Sea.
But as the Mongolia docked at the port of Suez to take on coal, a pair of sharp, suspicious eyes was watching the passengers step ashore.
These eyes belonged to Detective Fix, a man with a sharp nose, thin lips, and a mind that was always jumping to conclusions.
Fix was an agent of the British police, and he had been sent to Suez to look for the gentleman thief who had robbed the Bank of England.
"I tell you," Fix muttered to the British consul at the port, "the robber must be on this ship.
He is trying to escape to the east where the British police cannot easily catch him."
Just then, Passepartout came rushing down the gangplank, carrying his master's passport.
He ran straight up to Detective Fix.
"Excuse me, monsieur," Passepartout said, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"Could you tell me where the passport office is?
My master must have his passport stamped to prove he has passed through Suez."
Fix took the passport.
His eyes lit up.
The description in the passport matched the bank robber perfectly.
A tall, elegant gentleman, well-dressed, who spoke very little and spent money freely.
"Where is your master going?" Fix asked in a friendly, casual voice.
"Around the world!" Passepartout said proudly.
"In 80 days!
He has made a great bet.
He does not care about the sights, but I do.
I barely have time to see anything.
It is a mad rush!"
Fix smiled a thin, dark smile.
"Around the world in 80 days?" he thought.
"What a clever excuse!
He is pretending to make a wager so that he can fly across the globe before the police can catch him."
Fix knew he could not arrest Fogg without a warrant, and a warrant would take days to arrive from London.
He decided he must follow this mysterious traveler, keeping close to him, and find a way to delay him in British territory until the arrest warrant caught up with them.
So, when the Mongolia set sail across the vast Indian Ocean toward Bombay, Detective Fix was on board, hiding in the shadows, watching Phileas Fogg's every move.
On the ship, Fix tried to make friends with Passepartout.
The warm-hearted Frenchman was happy to have someone to talk to.
"My master is a strange man," Passepartout told Fix, as they leaned over the ship's railing, watching the flying fish leap out of the warm blue water.
"He is made of brass and iron.
He plays cards all day.
He does not care about the sea or the sky.
But he is generous.
He has promised the ship's engineers a great reward if they reach India early."
"And you?" Fix asked.
"Do you think he will win his bet?"
"Of course!" Passepartout cried.
"He is a man who never fails.
If he says we will do it, we will do it."
Despite the heat and the wind, the Mongolia cut through the waves like an an arrow.
When the ship docked at Bombay on the 20th of October, Phileas Fogg looked at his watch.
They had arrived two days ahead of schedule.
He wrote a plus two in his notebook.
He did not celebrate.
He simply walked to the railway station to board the train that would carry them across the vast peninsula of India to Calcutta.
But India is a land of ancient forests, mighty rivers, and deep mysteries, and it was here that Phileas Fogg's clockwork world would meet its first great test.
The train ride across India began beautifully.
The carriages were comfortable, and the tracks wound through green valleys, past ancient temples, and through jungles where wild monkeys swung from the branches of banyan trees.
Passepartout sat by the window, his eyes wide with delight.
He was beginning to think that this trip might be a wonderful adventure after all.
But on the second morning, the train suddenly hissed, groaned, and came to a dead stop in the middle of a small clearing near the village of Kolby.
The passengers began to murmur.
Mr. Fogg stepped out of the carriage.
"Why have we stopped?" he asked the conductor.
"The railway is finished, monsieur," the conductor replied, tipping his hat.
"Finished?" Fogg said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the tracks stop here," the conductor said cheerfully.
"There is a gap of 50 miles between here and Allahabad, where the railway begins again.
The newspapers said the line was complete, but they were, how shall I say, a little too quick to print it."
The passengers erupted in anger.
50 miles of wild jungle lay between them and the next train, and there was no way to cross it.
Stewart's words about the obstacles of nature seemed to ring through the hot air.
"This is a disaster!" Passepartout cried, pulling his hair.
"We are ruined!
We will lose the bet!"
But Phileas Fogg did not look angry.
He did not even look surprised.
He pulled out his pocket watch.
"I have a margin of two days to spare," he said calmly.
"The unforeseen does not exist.
We shall find a way to reach Allahabad."
Fogg walked through the village, searching for transport.
There were no carriages, no horses, and no carts.
But Fogg did not give up.
In a clearing at the edge of the forest, he found a young Indian man tending to a magnificent, giant creature, a domestic elephant named Kioni.
Kioni was a noble beast, strong, swift, and capable of traveling through the thickest jungle without tiring.
Fogg immediately asked to hire the elephant.
"He is not for hire," the owner said.
"I will give you 10 pounds an hour," Fogg offered.
The owner shook his head.
"20 pounds?"
"No."
"40 pounds?"
Still the owner refused.
Fogg's face remained as still as stone.
He looked at the elephant, then at his watch.
"I will buy him," Fogg said.
"I offer you 1,000 pounds."
The owner's eyes went wide, but he shook his head.
"2,000 pounds," Fogg said.
2,000 pounds was a fortune that could buy a whole village.
The owner bowed low.
The elephant was theirs.
Fogg hired a young, clever guide to lead them through the forest, and within an hour, they were mounted on Kioni's back, swaying side to side as the great beast marched into the dark, tangled depths of the Indian jungle.
For hours, the elephant pushed through the dense vines and towering ferns.
The air was thick and hot, filled with the cries of colorful birds.
As night fell, they camped in a small clearing, sleeping under the stars.
The next day, as they neared the town of Bundelkhand, the guide suddenly stopped the elephant.
He pointed through the trees and whispered, "Hide!
Quickly!"
A strange, solemn sound echoed through the forest, the beating of drums, the clashing of cymbals, and the chanting of many voices.
Through the thick foliage, Fogg and his companions saw a procession of people dressed in bright robes, carrying torches that cast long, flickering shadows in the fading light.
In the center of the procession was a young woman, her head bowed, her hands bound.
She was beautiful, but her face was pale with terror.
The guide whispered to Fogg, "She is Princess Aouda.
Her husband, the old ruler of this land, has died.
The priests are taking her to the temple.
They believe she must be sacrificed on his funeral pyre tomorrow morning, against her will, according to an ancient custom that is now forbidden, but still practiced in these remote forests."
Passepartout gasped in horror.
"We must save her!"
Phileas Fogg stood perfectly still.
He looked at his watch.
He looked at the path ahead.
He knew that any delay could cost him his fortune, his wager, and his reputation.
If they stayed to help, they might be caught, imprisoned, or worse.
Yet for the first time, a small crack appeared in Fogg's icy exterior.
A quiet warmth hidden deep inside the clockwork man began to shine through.
"I have 12 hours to spare," Fogg said quietly.
"We can save this woman."
"Oh, monsieur!" Passepartout cried, his eyes filling with tears of joy.
"You have a heart!"
"Sometimes," Fogg replied.
"When I have the time."
They waited in the shadows until the middle of the night, when the temple guards fell asleep, heavy with wine.
Fogg, Passepartout, and the guide crept toward the clearing where the funeral pyre was built.
But as they drew near, they saw that the guards were sleeping too close to the princess.
It was impossible to reach her without waking them.
The sky began to turn gray.
The dawn was coming.
The priests began to stir, lighting their torches.
The princess was placed upon the pile of wood.
Passepartout looked at his master, desperate.
But Fogg's face was grim.
He was preparing to rush forward, even if it meant a hopeless fight against 100 men.
Suddenly, a cry of terror went up from the crowd.
The wood of the pyre had been lit, and smoke was rising.
But through the flames, the figure of the dead ruler seemed to rise.
He stood up, towering over the fire, his arms stretched out.
The priests and guards shrieked in terror, believing the dead man had come back to life.
They threw themselves to the ground, hiding their faces in the dirt.
The dead ruler did not waste a second.
He reached down, lifted Princess Aouda in his strong arms, and ran leaping through the smoke straight toward Phileas Fogg.
It was Passepartout!
He had slipped through the shadows, climbed onto the pyre from behind, and disguised himself in the dead man's robes.
"Quickly!" Passepartout gasped, carrying the fainting princess.
"Run!"
They scrambled onto Kioni's back, and the elephant charged into the jungle at full speed.
By the time the priests realized they had been tricked, the travelers were far away, safe under the green canopy of the forest.
They reached the railway station at Allahabad, just as the train for Calcutta was preparing to depart.
Phileas Fogg paid the brave guide handsomely, gave the wonderful elephant Kioni to him as a gift, and bought first-class tickets for themselves and Princess Aouda.
Aouda was safe, but she could not stay in India.
It was too dangerous for her.
Fogg promised to take her with them to Hong Kong, where she had a wealthy relative who could protect her.
As the train sped toward the coast, Aouda looked at her rescuer.
He was polite, quiet, and attentive, but he spoke only of the train schedule and the weather.
"Is he always like this?" she whispered to Passepartout.
"He is a man of iron," Passepartout whispered back, smiling.
"But he has a good heart.
He saved you, did he not?
He risked everything for you."
When they arrived in Calcutta, however, trouble was waiting.
As they stepped off the train, a police officer tapped Fogg on the shoulder.
"Are you Mr. Phileas Fogg?"
"I am."
"You must come with me."
Detective Fix had arrived in Calcutta ahead of them, and he had convinced the local judges to arrest Fogg.
Not for the bank robbery, for which he still had no warrant, but for Passepartout's accidental entry into a sacred temple in Bombay a few days earlier, which was against the law.
Fix hoped this would delay Fogg for weeks.
But Fogg did not lose his cool.
In the courtroom, when the judge sentenced them to a week in prison, Fogg calmly stepped forward.
"I offer bail."
"Bail is set at 1,000 pounds each," the judge replied, thinking this would stop them.
Fogg opened his leather bag, pulled out 2,000 pounds, and handed them to the clerk.
"Here is the money."
Fix, who was hiding in the back of the courtroom, nearly choked on his own breath.
Fogg was willing to throw away thousands of pounds just to keep moving?
Free to go, Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout boarded the steamship Rangoon, bound for Hong Kong.
But the weather, which had been their friend, now turned against them.
A fierce storm arose in the South China Sea.
The wind howled, and the waves tossed the ship like a toy.
The Rangoon was forced to slow down, losing precious hours.
Fix was also on board, growing more desperate by the day.
He knew that Hong Kong was the last British port on their route.
If Fogg escaped from Hong Kong without being arrested, Fix would lose him forever.
When they finally docked in Hong Kong, they found they had missed their connecting ship, the Carnatic, which was bound for Japan.
But Fogg discovered that the Carnatic had been delayed for repairs, and would not sail until the following morning.
"We have time," Fogg said.
"Passepartout, go to the ticket office and secure our cabins."
Passepartout ran to the docks, but as he reached the ticket office, Detective Fix stepped out of the shadows.
Fix knew this was his last chance.
He dragged Passepartout into a nearby tavern, determined to keep the servant from telling his master about the ship's departure.
"Your master is a thief!" Fix declared, showing his police badge.
"He robbed the Bank of England!
I must arrest him in Hong Kong.
Help me, and you shall have a share of the reward."
"Never!" Passepartout cried, slamming his fist on the table.
"My master is the most honest man in the world!"
Seeing that Passepartout would not betray Fogg, Fix secretly slipped a strong sleeping potion into the young Frenchman's drink.
Within minutes, Passepartout's eyes grew heavy, and he fell fast asleep on the table.
Fix left him there, confident that without his servant, Fogg would miss the ship.
But Passepartout, even in his sleep, had a loyal heart.
In the middle of the night, he woke up in a daze.
He did not remember where he was, but he remembered one thing.
The ship!
The ship leaves early!
Stumbling, crawling, and dragging his feet through the dark streets, Passepartout managed to reach the docks just as the Carnatic was pulling away.
He threw himself over the railing and collapsed onto the deck, unconscious, as the ship sailed away into the night.
But Phileas Fogg and Princess Aouda were not on board.
The next morning, Fogg went to the docks and found that the ship had gone, and his servant had vanished.
For the first time, Fogg was left entirely alone in a foreign land, with no tickets, no servant, and no way to cross the vast Pacific Ocean.
But Fogg did not panic.
He looked out at the water.
He found a small, sturdy pilot boat named the Tankadere, owned by a brave sailor who was willing to take them to Shanghai, where they could catch the great American steamer to San Francisco.
"It is a dangerous voyage in such a small boat," the captain warned.
"I will pay you 100 pounds a day," Fogg said, "and a bonus of 200 if we arrive in time."
They set sail through a terrifying typhoon.
The little boat climbed mountains of water and plunged into deep, watery valleys.
Aouda held onto the rigging, her heart racing.
But when she looked at Fogg, she saw him standing at the helm, his face as calm as if he were sitting in his London club.
His courage gave her strength.
They reached Shanghai just as the American steamer, the General Grant, was blowing its whistle to depart.
Fogg signaled the giant ship with a small brass cannon on the pilot boat.
The steamer stopped, and Fogg and Aouda were taken aboard.
Meanwhile, poor Passepartout had arrived in Yokohama, Japan, with no money, no food, and no idea where his master was.
He wandered the streets, his stomach rumbling.
To earn enough money to eat, he joined a troop of Japanese acrobats called the Long Noses, who wore giant wooden noses and performed amazing feats of balance.
During the grand performance, Passepartout stood at the bottom of a human pyramid, supporting several acrobats on his shoulders.
Suddenly, he looked into the audience and saw a familiar face.
Phileas Fogg, sitting next to Princess Aouda.
"Monsieur!" Passepartout screamed, forgetting his balance.
The pyramid collapsed in a heap of wooden noses and colorful robes.
Passepartout scrambled out of the wreckage, threw himself at Fogg's feet, and wept with joy.
Fogg did not scold him.
He simply paid the angry manager for the broken costumes, and together they boarded the steamer for America.
The Pacific Ocean was kind to them, and on the 3rd of December, the General Grant docked in San Francisco.
They had reached the American continent.
"Now," Passepartout said, breathing a sigh of relief, "we have only to take the train across America to New York, and then a ship to London.
It is simple!"
But America in 1872 was a wild, untamed land, and the transcontinental railroad was a ribbon of steel running through deserts, mountains, and plains where danger lurked around every bend.
And, to Passepartout's horror, Detective Fix was still with them.
Fix had finally received his arrest warrant, but it was useless now.
They were in America, outside of British jurisdiction.
Fix had to help Fogg get back to England as fast as possible, so he could arrest him on British soil.
"We are allies now," Fix whispered to Passepartout.
"I want him to reach London quickly, just as you do."
Passepartout did not trust the detective, but they had no time to argue.
They boarded the train, which began its long journey across the snow-covered Rocky Mountains.
The obstacles came thick and fast.
On the second day, the train suddenly stopped.
A great dark cloud seemed to cover the tracks ahead.
It was a herd of thousands of wild buffalo crossing the railway.
For three hours, the passengers had to wait as the massive animals walked slowly across the rails, their hooves churning the dirt.
Fogg sat in his seat, watching his watch tick away three precious hours.
He did not say a word.
The next day, they reached a deep, rocky canyon, spanned by a shaky iron bridge called Medicine Bow.
The bridge was damaged, and the suspension cables were fraying.
The station master warned them that the bridge would surely collapse under the weight of the train.
"We cannot cross," the passengers murmured.
But the train engineer had a wild, daring idea.
"If we run the train at its absolute maximum speed," he said, "we might fly across fast enough that the bridge won't have time to fall under us."
It was a terrifying risk.
The passengers were pale with fear.
But Fogg simply said, "If it is the only way, let us try."
The train backed up a mile to gain a running start.
The engine screamed, throwing black smoke into the cold air.
The wheels spun, and the train leaped forward, faster and faster, until it was hurtling down the tracks like a rocket.
They reached the bridge.
The iron groaned, the cables snapped, and the bridge began to crumble into the abyss.
With a deafening roar, the train flew across the gap, landing safely on the other side, just as the entire bridge collapsed into the canyon behind them.
But their troubles were not over.
As they crossed the snowy plains of Nebraska, a band of Sioux warriors on horseback attacked the train, firing rifles and leaping onto the moving carriages.
The passengers fought back bravely, but the train was rushing toward Fort Kearney, a military post.
And if the train did not stop, the soldiers would not be able to help them.
The engineer had been wounded, and the train was running wild.
"Someone must reach the engine and pull the brake!" a passenger cried.
"I will go," Passepartout said.
The brave Frenchman climbed out of the window of the moving train, clinging to the frosty metal roofs of the carriages as the icy wind whipped his face.
He crawled forward, dodging bullets, until he reached the engine.
With a final desperate effort, he reached inside and pulled the steam valve.
The brakes screeched, the wheels locked, and the train slid to a halt just outside the gates of Fort Kearney.
The soldiers rushed out, driving the attackers away.
The passengers were saved, but when Fogg counted them, he realized that three people were missing, and one of them was Passepartout, who had been captured during the fight.
Fogg looked at the horizon.
He looked at his watch.
To search for Passepartout meant losing the train, losing the wager, and losing his fortune.
Yet, Fogg did not hesitate.
He turned to the soldiers.
"I will give 1,000 pounds to anyone who will come with me to rescue my servant."
30 soldiers volunteered.
Fogg led them into the snowy night, leaving Aouda and Fix at the station.
Hours passed.
The train, having repaired its engine, was forced to leave without them.
Fix paced the platform, muttering in frustration.
Aouda prayed by the fire.
At dawn, a shout went up.
Through the falling snow came Phileas Fogg, his face pale and cold, but walking beside him was Passepartout, tired but safe.
They were alive, but they were stranded in the middle of the frozen plains, and the train was gone.
"How will we reach New York?" Passepartout cried, blaming himself.
"We have lost everything!"
Just then, an American inventor named Mudge approached them.
He had a strange vehicle parked in the snow, a sledge with a mast and sails, designed to glide over the ice like a ship.
"The wind is blowing hard from the west," Mudge said.
"This sledge can travel faster than an express train."
Fogg did not hesitate.
They climbed onto the wooden deck, wrapped themselves in heavy blankets, and the sails were hoisted.
The wind caught the canvas, and the sledge leaped forward, flying over the frozen snow at 40 miles an hour.
The cold air bit their cheeks, and the white landscape blurred past them.
They reached Omaha, took a train to Chicago, and then another to New York.
But when they arrived at the Hudson River docks on the 11th of December, they saw only empty water.
The great steamship China, their last hope to reach England in time, had sailed for Liverpool 45 minutes earlier.
The race seemed to be over.
There was no other passenger ship sailing for England for a week.
Phileas Fogg stood on the snowy pier, looking out at the gray, empty ocean.
His fortune was gone.
He was ruined.
But Fogg's mind did not stop working.
He walked along the docks until he found a small, iron-hulled cargo boat named the Henrietta.
Its captain, a gruff, bearded man named Andrew Speedy, was bound for Bordeaux in France.
"I will not take passengers!" Captain Speedy barked.
"I only carry wood!"
"I will give you 2,000 for each of us if you take us to Liverpool," Fogg said.
"No, I am going to Bordeaux."
"I will buy your ship," Fogg said calmly.
"What?"
Fogg opened his leather bag, which was now growing very light.
"I will pay you 8,000 for the ship, and you may keep the cargo."
Captain Speedy had never heard of such a madman, but the offer was too good to refuse.
He took the money.
Fogg took command of the ship, locked the captain in his cabin for safety, and ordered the crew to head for Liverpool at full speed.
But the Henrietta was not built for such speed.
On the third day at sea, the engineer came to Fogg with terrible news.
"We are out of coal, monsieur!
We cannot reach England!"
"What is there on board that is made of wood?" Fogg asked.
"The decks, the cabins, the masts, the railings?"
"Burn them!" Fogg said.
"Bring me a hatchet!"
For the next three days, the crew chopped up their own ship to feed the fires.
The elegant wooden cabins, the grand masts, and the polished decks were thrown into the furnaces.
The Henrietta became a skeleton of iron, smoking and screaming through the waves.
They reached Queenstown in Ireland, took a fast mail train to Dublin, and then a steamer to Liverpool.
On the 21st of December, at 20 minutes before noon, Phileas Fogg stepped onto the docks of Liverpool.
He was only six hours away from London by train.
The wager was as good as won.
But as Fogg took Aouda's hand to lead her to the station, Detective Fix stepped forward.
He placed his hand on Fogg's shoulder.
"In the name of her majesty," Fix said, his voice trembling, "I arrest you, Phileas Fogg!"
Passepartout threw himself at Fix, but the police officers dragged Fogg away.
He was locked in a cold, dark cell in the Liverpool custom house.
Fogg sat on a wooden bench.
He did not shout.
He did not pace.
He placed his watch on the table before him and watched the hands move.
One hour passed, two hours, three hours.
Every tick of the clock was a nail in the coffin of his dreams.
He had spent his entire fortune to make this journey, and now, within sight of the finish line, he was ruined.
At half past two, the door of the cell flew open.
Detective Fix ran in, out of breath, his face red with shame.
"Mr. Fogg!" Fix gasped.
"Forgive me!
A terrible mistake!
The real bank robber was arrested three days ago in Edinburgh!
You are free!"
For the first time in his life, Phileas Fogg did a completely unclockwork thing.
He took a step forward, looked Fix straight in the eye, and delivered a swift, perfectly timed punch to the detective's nose.
Fix fell to the floor, groaning.
"Well hit!" Passepartout cheered.
They rushed to the station, but the express train to London had already left.
Fogg hired a special train, paying the engineer a fortune to run at maximum speed.
But the tracks were busy, and there were delays.
When the train finally pulled into the London station, the clock on the wall read 10 minutes to nine.
They were five minutes late.
Phileas Fogg had lost the bet.
They returned to the quiet house on Saville Row.
The house was cold and dark.
Fogg did not look at his notebook.
He did not wind his clocks.
He had spent nearly every penny of his remaining fortune on the journey, and he was now a poor man.
The next evening, Fogg went to Princess Aouda's room.
He looked at her with a gentle sadness in his eyes.
"Madam," he said softly, "I brought you away from your home to a life of safety, but I did not mean to bring you to a life of poverty.
I have nothing left to offer you."
Aouda looked at him, her eyes shining with tears.
She took his cold hands in her warm ones.
"Mr. Fogg," she said, "do you not understand?
I do not care about your fortune.
When I was in danger, you risked your life for me.
You have shown me a heart of gold.
I love you, Phileas Fogg!
Will you have me as your wife?"
Fogg looked at her.
The ice around his heart, which had been melting throughout their long journey, finally shattered.
A warm, beautiful smile spread across his face.
"I love you, Aouda," he whispered, "with all my heart."
He called Passepartout into the room.
"Passepartout," Fogg said, "go to the reverend's house.
We wish to be married tomorrow, Monday."
Passepartout ran out of the house, his heart singing.
He was so happy that he ran at full speed through the streets.
He reached the reverend's house, but three minutes later, he came bursting back into the Saville Row house like a human cannonball.
He was panting, his eyes bulging, unable to speak.
"What is it?" Fogg asked.
"Monsieur!" Passepartout gasped, grabbing Fogg's coat.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow is not Monday!"
"What do you mean?"
"Tomorrow is Sunday!
Today is Saturday!"
"Saturday?" Fogg said.
"That is impossible!
Today is the 22nd of December!"
"No, monsieur!
It is the 21st!
We have made a mistake!
Because we traveled eastward toward the sun, we crossed the international date line.
Every time we went east, we gained four minutes for every degree of longitude.
In 80 days, we gained exactly 24 hours!
We arrived in London 24 hours early, and we never knew it!"
Phileas Fogg did not say a word.
He grabbed his hat.
He did not look at his watch.
He did not walk with mathematical precision.
He ran!
He leaped into a cab, shouting to the driver, "To the Reform Club!
100 pounds if you get me there in three minutes!"
At the Reform Club, the five gentlemen of the wager sat around their table.
The clock on the wall was ticking toward a quarter to nine.
"It is 44 minutes past 8," Andrew Stewart said, looking at his watch.
"The train from Liverpool arrived last night and Fogg was not on it.
We have won!"
The clock ticked.
44 minutes and 50 seconds.
44 minutes and 55 seconds.
The gentlemen counted the beats of the pendulum.
Suddenly, a great roar of cheering went up from the crowd in the street outside.
The doors of the club flew open.
At exactly 44 minutes and 57 seconds, Phileas Fogg walked into the room, calm, elegant, and perfectly on time.
"Here I am, gentlemen," he said.
And that is the end of the story.
Phileas Fogg had won his bet.
He had traveled around the entire world in 80 days, crossing oceans, mountains, and deserts, and overcoming every obstacle that nature and man could throw in his path.
But as he sat in his quiet house on Saville Row the next morning, with Aouda sitting beside him and Passepartout happily winding the clocks, Fogg realized something wonderful.
He had won 20,000 pounds, but he had spent nearly 19,000 on the journey itself.
The money did not matter.
What had he truly gained from this great race against the clock?
He had gained a loyal friend in Passepartout.
He had found a beautiful, loving wife in Aouda.
He had learned that the world was not just a map of numbers and schedules, but a place of warmth, daring, and unexpected beauty.
His cold, clockwork life had been touched by fire, and he was a better man for it.
And so, as we leave Mr. Fogg in his warm, happy home, let us think about his journey.
Is it better to live our lives like a perfect clock, cool, exact, and never losing our calm?
Or does it take a little warmth, a little daring, and a willingness to break our schedules to find what truly matters?
This is a question to keep with you as you close your eyes and let the world spin quietly on.