Phileas Fogg Buys Strange Transportation at a Fabulous Price

The train had started punctually. Among the passengers were a number of officers, Government officials, and opium and indigo merchants, whose business called them to the eastern coast. Passepartout rode in the same carriage with his master, and a third passenger occupied a seat opposite to them. This was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr. Fogg’s whist partners on the “Mongolia,” now on his way to join his corps at Benares. Sir Francis was a tall, fair man of fifty, who had greatly distinguished himself in the last Sepoy revolt. He made India his home, only paying brief visits to England at rare intervals; and was almost as familiar as a native with the customs, history, and character of India and its people. But Phileas Fogg, who was not travelling, but only describing a circumference, took no pains to inquire into these subjects; he was a solid body, traversing an orbit around the terrestrial globe, according to the laws of rational mechanics. He was at this moment calculating in his mind the number of hours spent since his departure from London, and, had it been in his nature to make a useless demonstration, would have rubbed his hands for satisfaction. Sir Francis Cromarty had observed the oddity of his travelling companion—although the only opportunity he had for studying him had been while he was dealing the cards, and between two rubbers—and questioned himself whether a human heart really beat beneath this cold exterior, and whether Phileas Fogg had any sense of the beauties of nature. The brigadier-general was free to mentally confess that, of all the eccentric persons he had ever met, none was comparable to this product of the exact sciences.

The train left on time. Among the passengers were officers, government officials, and opium and indigo merchants whose business took them to the eastern coast. Passepartout rode in the same carriage as his master. A third passenger sat opposite them. He was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr. Fogg’s whist partners on the “Mongolia.” He was on his way to join his corps at Benares. Sir Francis was a tall, fair-haired man of fifty who had distinguished himself greatly in the last Sepoy revolt. He made his home in India and rarely visited England, then only briefly. He knew the customs, history, and character of India and its people almost as well as a native. But Phileas Fogg was not travelling. He was merely tracing a circle around the world, and he made no effort to learn about such things. He was a solid body moving in an orbit around the globe, according to the laws of rational mechanics. At that moment, he was calculating how many hours had passed since he left London. If it had been in his nature to make a pointless gesture, he would have rubbed his hands with satisfaction. Sir Francis Cromarty had noticed how odd his travelling companion was. His only chance to study Fogg, though, had been while dealing cards and between two rounds of whist. He wondered whether a human heart really beat beneath Fogg’s cold exterior, and whether Fogg appreciated the beauty of nature. The brigadier-general was willing to admit to himself that, of all the eccentric people he had met, none compared to this product of the exact sciences.

Phileas Fogg had not concealed from Sir Francis his design of going round the world, nor the circumstances under which he set out; and the general only saw in the wager a useless eccentricity and a lack of sound common sense. In the way this strange gentleman was going on, he would leave the world without having done any good to himself or anybody else.

Phileas Fogg had told Sir Francis about his plan to travel around the world and the circumstances of his departure. The general saw the wager as a pointless eccentricity and a sign of poor judgment. At the rate this strange gentleman was going, he would leave the world without having done any good for himself or anyone else.

An hour after leaving Bombay the train had passed the viaducts and the Island of Salcette, and had got into the open country. At Callyan they reached the junction of the branch line which descends towards south-eastern India by Kandallah and Pounah; and, passing Pauwell, they entered the defiles of the mountains, with their basalt bases, and their summits crowned with thick and verdant forests. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty exchanged a few words from time to time, and now Sir Francis, reviving the conversation, observed, “Some years ago, Mr. Fogg, you would have met with a delay at this point which would probably have lost you your wager.”

An hour after leaving Bombay, the train had passed the viaducts and the Island of Salcette and entered open country. At Callyan they reached the junction with the branch line that runs toward south-eastern India through Kandallah and Pounah. After passing Pauwell, they entered the narrow mountain passes. The mountains had basalt bases and summits covered in thick, green forests. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty exchanged a few words from time to time. Sir Francis now resumed the conversation. “Some years ago, Mr. Fogg, you would have been delayed at this point, and probably would have lost your wager.”

“How so, Sir Francis?”

“What do you mean, Sir Francis?”

“Because the railway stopped at the base of these mountains, which the passengers were obliged to cross in palanquins or on ponies to Kandallah, on the other side.”

“Because the railway stopped at the foot of these mountains, passengers had to cross them by palanquin or pony. They had to travel to Kandallah, on the other side.”

“Such a delay would not have deranged my plans in the least,” said Mr. Fogg. “I have constantly foreseen the likelihood of certain obstacles.”

“Such a delay would not have disrupted my plans at all,” said Mr. Fogg. “I have always expected that certain obstacles might arise.”

“But, Mr. Fogg,” pursued Sir Francis, “you run the risk of having some difficulty about this worthy fellow’s adventure at the pagoda.” Passepartout, his feet comfortably wrapped in his travelling-blanket, was sound asleep and did not dream that anybody was talking about him. “The Government is very severe upon that kind of offence. It takes particular care that the religious customs of the Indians should be respected, and if your servant were caught—”

“But, Mr. Fogg,” Sir Francis continued, “you risk having some trouble over this good fellow’s adventure at the pagoda.” Passepartout was fast asleep, his feet comfortably wrapped in his travelling blanket. He had no idea anyone was talking about him. “The Government is very strict about that kind of offense. It takes particular care to ensure that Indian religious customs are respected, and if your servant were caught...”

“Very well, Sir Francis,” replied Mr. Fogg; “if he had been caught he would have been condemned and punished, and then would have quietly returned to Europe. I don’t see how this affair could have delayed his master.”

“All right, Sir Francis,” replied Mr. Fogg. “If he had been caught, he would have been convicted and punished. Then he would have quietly returned to Europe. I don’t see how that could have delayed his master.”

The conversation fell again. During the night the train left the mountains behind, and passed Nassik, and the next day proceeded over the flat, well-cultivated country of the Khandeish, with its straggling villages, above which rose the minarets of the pagodas. This fertile territory is watered by numerous small rivers and limpid streams, mostly tributaries of the Godavery.

The conversation died down again. During the night, the train left the mountains behind and passed Nassik. The next day, it traveled across the flat, well-cultivated countryside of the Khandeish. Scattered villages dotted the land, with pagoda minarets rising above them. Many small rivers and clear streams water this fertile region. Most are tributaries of the Godavery.

Passepartout, on waking and looking out, could not realise that he was actually crossing India in a railway train. The locomotive, guided by an English engineer and fed with English coal, threw out its smoke upon cotton, coffee, nutmeg, clove, and pepper plantations, while the steam curled in spirals around groups of palm-trees, in the midst of which were seen picturesque bungalows, viharis (sort of abandoned monasteries), and marvellous temples enriched by the exhaustless ornamentation of Indian architecture. Then they came upon vast tracts extending to the horizon, with jungles inhabited by snakes and tigers, which fled at the noise of the train; succeeded by forests penetrated by the railway, and still haunted by elephants which, with pensive eyes, gazed at the train as it passed. The travellers crossed, beyond Milligaum, the fatal country so often stained with blood by the sectaries of the goddess Kali. Not far off rose Ellora, with its graceful pagodas, and the famous Aurungabad, capital of the ferocious Aureng-Zeb, now the chief town of one of the detached provinces of the kingdom of the Nizam. It was thereabouts that Feringhea, the Thuggee chief, king of the stranglers, held his sway. These ruffians, united by a secret bond, strangled victims of every age in honour of the goddess Death, without ever shedding blood; there was a period when this part of the country could scarcely be travelled over without corpses being found in every direction. The English Government has succeeded in greatly diminishing these murders, though the Thuggees still exist, and pursue the exercise of their horrible rites.

When Passepartout woke and looked outside, he could hardly believe he was crossing India by train. An English engineer drove the locomotive, which burned English coal. Its smoke drifted over cotton, coffee, nutmeg, clove, and pepper plantations. Steam curled around groups of palm trees. Among them stood picturesque bungalows, viharis (a kind of abandoned monastery), and marvelous temples. The temples were richly decorated with the endless ornamentation of Indian architecture. Then they came to vast stretches of land extending to the horizon. Snakes and tigers fled the jungles at the sound of the train. Beyond them, the railway passed through forests where elephants still roamed. The elephants gazed thoughtfully at the passing train. Beyond Milligaum, the travelers crossed the deadly region so often stained with blood by followers of the goddess Kali. Not far away rose Ellora, with its graceful pagodas, and the famous Aurungabad. Aurungabad had been the capital of the ferocious Aureng-Zeb. It was now the chief town of one of the separate provinces of the kingdom of the Nizam. In that area, Feringhea, the Thuggee chief and king of the stranglers, had held power. These villains were bound together by a secret bond. They strangled victims of every age in honor of the goddess Death, without ever shedding blood. There was a time when people could hardly travel through this part of the country without finding corpses everywhere. The English Government has greatly reduced these murders, though the Thuggees still exist and practice their horrible rites.

At half-past twelve the train stopped at Burhampoor where Passepartout was able to purchase some Indian slippers, ornamented with false pearls, in which, with evident vanity, he proceeded to encase his feet. The travellers made a hasty breakfast and started off for Assurghur, after skirting for a little the banks of the small river Tapty, which empties into the Gulf of Cambray, near Surat.

At half past twelve, the train stopped at Burhampoor. There, Passepartout bought some Indian slippers decorated with imitation pearls and put them on with obvious pride. The travelers ate a quick breakfast and set off for Assurghur. For a short while, they followed the banks of the small Tapty River, which flows into the Gulf of Cambray near Surat.

Passepartout was now plunged into absorbing reverie. Up to his arrival at Bombay, he had entertained hopes that their journey would end there; but, now that they were plainly whirling across India at full speed, a sudden change had come over the spirit of his dreams. His old vagabond nature returned to him; the fantastic ideas of his youth once more took possession of him. He came to regard his master’s project as intended in good earnest, believed in the reality of the bet, and therefore in the tour of the world and the necessity of making it without fail within the designated period. Already he began to worry about possible delays, and accidents which might happen on the way. He recognised himself as being personally interested in the wager, and trembled at the thought that he might have been the means of losing it by his unpardonable folly of the night before. Being much less cool-headed than Mr. Fogg, he was much more restless, counting and recounting the days passed over, uttering maledictions when the train stopped, and accusing it of sluggishness, and mentally blaming Mr. Fogg for not having bribed the engineer. The worthy fellow was ignorant that, while it was possible by such means to hasten the rate of a steamer, it could not be done on the railway.

Passepartout was now lost in thought. Until he arrived in Bombay, he had hoped their journey would end there. But now they were clearly racing across India at full speed, and his dreams suddenly took a different turn. His old wandering spirit returned, and the fantastic ideas of his youth took hold of him again. He came to see that his master was serious about his plan. He believed the bet was real, and that they really had to travel around the world within the allotted time. He was already beginning to worry about possible delays and accidents along the way. He realized that he had a personal stake in the wager. He trembled at the thought that his unforgivable foolishness the night before might have caused them to lose it. Passepartout was much less cool-headed than Mr. Fogg, and much more restless. He counted and recounted the days that had passed. Whenever the train stopped, he cursed it and complained that it was too slow. In his mind, he blamed Mr. Fogg for not bribing the engineer. The good fellow did not know that, while a bribe could make a steamer go faster, it could not do the same for a train.

The train entered the defiles of the Sutpour Mountains, which separate the Khandeish from Bundelcund, towards evening. The next day Sir Francis Cromarty asked Passepartout what time it was; to which, on consulting his watch, he replied that it was three in the morning. This famous timepiece, always regulated on the Greenwich meridian, which was now some seventy-seven degrees westward, was at least four hours slow. Sir Francis corrected Passepartout’s time, whereupon the latter made the same remark that he had done to Fix; and upon the general insisting that the watch should be regulated in each new meridian, since he was constantly going eastward, that is in the face of the sun, and therefore the days were shorter by four minutes for each degree gone over, Passepartout obstinately refused to alter his watch, which he kept at London time. It was an innocent delusion which could harm no one.

Toward evening, the train entered the mountain passes of the Sutpour Mountains, which separate Khandeish from Bundelcund. The next day, Sir Francis Cromarty asked Passepartout what time it was. Passepartout checked his watch and replied that it was three in the morning. His famous watch was still set to the Greenwich meridian, now some seventy-seven degrees to the west. It was at least four hours slow. Sir Francis corrected him, and Passepartout made the same remark he had made to Fix. The general insisted that Passepartout should reset his watch at each new meridian. Because he was constantly traveling eastward, toward the sun, his days were four minutes shorter for every degree he crossed. But Passepartout stubbornly refused to change his watch and kept it on London time. It was an innocent delusion that could harm no one.

The train stopped, at eight o’clock, in the midst of a glade some fifteen miles beyond Rothal, where there were several bungalows, and workmen’s cabins. The conductor, passing along the carriages, shouted, “Passengers will get out here!”

At eight o’clock, the train stopped in the middle of a clearing about fifteen miles beyond Rothal. There were several bungalows and workers’ cabins in the clearing. The conductor walked along the train, shouting, “Passengers, get out here!”

Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty for an explanation; but the general could not tell what meant a halt in the midst of this forest of dates and acacias.

Phileas Fogg looked to Sir Francis Cromarty for an explanation. But the general could not explain the stop in the middle of the forest of date palms and acacias.

Passepartout, not less surprised, rushed out and speedily returned, crying: “Monsieur, no more railway!”

Passepartout was just as surprised. He rushed out and quickly returned, crying: “Monsieur, there’s no more railway!”

“What do you mean?” asked Sir Francis.

“What do you mean?” asked Sir Francis.

“I mean to say that the train isn’t going on.”

“I mean the train isn’t going any farther.”

The general at once stepped out, while Phileas Fogg calmly followed him, and they proceeded together to the conductor.

The general stepped out at once, and Phileas Fogg calmly followed him. They went together to the conductor.

“Where are we?” asked Sir Francis.

“Where are we?” asked Sir Francis.

“At the hamlet of Kholby.”

“At the small village of Kholby.”

“Do we stop here?”

“Do we stop here?”

“Certainly. The railway isn’t finished.”

“Of course. The railway isn’t finished.”

“What! not finished?”

“What! Not finished?”

“No. There’s still a matter of fifty miles to be laid from here to Allahabad, where the line begins again.”

“No. Fifty miles of track still need to be laid from here to Allahabad, where the line begins again.”

“But the papers announced the opening of the railway throughout.”

“But the newspapers announced that the railway was open all the way.”

“What would you have, officer? The papers were mistaken.”

“What can I say, officer? The newspapers were wrong.”

“Yet you sell tickets from Bombay to Calcutta,” retorted Sir Francis, who was growing warm.

“But you sell tickets from Bombay to Calcutta,” Sir Francis replied, growing irritated.

“No doubt,” replied the conductor; “but the passengers know that they must provide means of transportation for themselves from Kholby to Allahabad.”

“No doubt,” the conductor replied, “but the passengers know they must arrange their own transportation from Kholby to Allahabad.”

Sir Francis was furious. Passepartout would willingly have knocked the conductor down, and did not dare to look at his master.

Sir Francis was furious. Passepartout would gladly have knocked the conductor down, and he did not dare look at his master.

“Sir Francis,” said Mr. Fogg quietly, “we will, if you please, look about for some means of conveyance to Allahabad.”

“Sir Francis,” said Mr. Fogg quietly, “if you please, let us look for some way to get to Allahabad.”

“Mr. Fogg, this is a delay greatly to your disadvantage.”

“Mr. Fogg, this delay puts you at a serious disadvantage.”

“No, Sir Francis; it was foreseen.”

“No, Sir Francis, it was expected.”

“What! You knew that the way—”

“What! You knew that the way...”

“Not at all; but I knew that some obstacle or other would sooner or later arise on my route. Nothing, therefore, is lost. I have two days, which I have already gained, to sacrifice. A steamer leaves Calcutta for Hong Kong at noon, on the 25th. This is the 22nd, and we shall reach Calcutta in time.”

“Not at all. But I knew that sooner or later, some obstacle would arise on my route. So nothing is lost. I have already gained two days, which I can afford to lose. A steamship leaves Calcutta for Hong Kong at noon on the 25th. Today is the 22nd, and we will reach Calcutta in time.”

There was nothing to say to so confident a response.

There was nothing to say to such a confident reply.

It was but too true that the railway came to a termination at this point. The papers were like some watches, which have a way of getting too fast, and had been premature in their announcement of the completion of the line. The greater part of the travellers were aware of this interruption, and, leaving the train, they began to engage such vehicles as the village could provide four-wheeled palkigharis, waggons drawn by zebus, carriages that looked like perambulating pagodas, palanquins, ponies, and what not.

It was all too true that the railway ended at this point. The newspapers were like watches that run fast. They had announced the line’s completion too soon. Most of the travelers knew about the break in the line. They left the train and began to hire whatever vehicles the village could provide: four-wheeled palkigharis, wagons drawn by zebus, carriages that looked like pagodas on wheels, palanquins, ponies, and all sorts of other conveyances.

Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, after searching the village from end to end, came back without having found anything.

Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty searched the entire village, then returned without finding anything.

“I shall go afoot,” said Phileas Fogg.

“I’ll walk,” said Phileas Fogg.

Passepartout, who had now rejoined his master, made a wry grimace, as he thought of his magnificent, but too frail Indian shoes. Happily he too had been looking about him, and, after a moment’s hesitation, said, “Monsieur, I think I have found a means of conveyance.”

Passepartout had now rejoined his master. He grimaced as he thought of his magnificent but fragile Indian shoes. Luckily, he too had been looking around. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Monsieur, I think I’ve found a way for us to travel.”

“What?”

“What?”

“An elephant! An elephant that belongs to an Indian who lives but a hundred steps from here.”

“An elephant! An elephant that belongs to an Indian who lives only a hundred steps from here.”

“Let’s go and see the elephant,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“Let’s go see the elephant,” said Mr. Fogg.

They soon reached a small hut, near which, enclosed within some high palings, was the animal in question. An Indian came out of the hut, and, at their request, conducted them within the enclosure. The elephant, which its owner had reared, not for a beast of burden, but for warlike purposes, was half domesticated. The Indian had begun already, by often irritating him, and feeding him every three months on sugar and butter, to impart to him a ferocity not in his nature, this method being often employed by those who train the Indian elephants for battle. Happily, however, for Mr. Fogg, the animal’s instruction in this direction had not gone far, and the elephant still preserved his natural gentleness. Kiouni—this was the name of the beast—could doubtless travel rapidly for a long time, and, in default of any other means of conveyance, Mr. Fogg resolved to hire him. But elephants are far from cheap in India, where they are becoming scarce, the males, which alone are suitable for circus shows, are much sought, especially as but few of them are domesticated. When therefore Mr. Fogg proposed to the Indian to hire Kiouni, he refused point-blank. Mr. Fogg persisted, offering the excessive sum of ten pounds an hour for the loan of the beast to Allahabad. Refused. Twenty pounds? Refused also. Forty pounds? Still refused. Passepartout jumped at each advance; but the Indian declined to be tempted. Yet the offer was an alluring one, for, supposing it took the elephant fifteen hours to reach Allahabad, his owner would receive no less than six hundred pounds sterling.

They soon reached a small hut. Nearby, the elephant stood inside an enclosure surrounded by a high fence. An Indian man came out of the hut and, at their request, led them into the enclosure. He had raised the elephant for war, not to carry loads, and the animal was only partly domesticated. He had already begun to make the elephant fierce, though fierceness was not in its nature. He did this by often irritating it and feeding it sugar and butter every three months. Trainers often used this method to prepare Indian elephants for battle. Fortunately for Mr. Fogg, the training had not gone far, and the elephant was still naturally gentle. The elephant, whose name was Kiouni, could no doubt travel quickly for a long time. With no other way to travel, Mr. Fogg decided to hire him. But elephants were far from cheap in India, where they were becoming scarce. Male elephants were in great demand because only they were suitable for circus shows, and few were domesticated. So when Mr. Fogg offered to hire Kiouni, the owner refused outright. Mr. Fogg persisted, offering the enormous sum of ten pounds an hour to hire Kiouni for the journey to Allahabad. The owner refused. Twenty pounds? Refused again. Forty pounds? Still refused. Passepartout jumped at each increase, but the owner would not be tempted. Yet the offer was attractive. If the elephant took fifteen hours to reach Allahabad, his owner would receive no less than six hundred pounds sterling.

Phileas Fogg, without getting in the least flurried, then proposed to purchase the animal outright, and at first offered a thousand pounds for him. The Indian, perhaps thinking he was going to make a great bargain, still refused.

Phileas Fogg remained perfectly calm and offered to buy the animal outright for a thousand pounds. The Indian still refused, perhaps thinking he could get a much better deal.

Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside, and begged him to reflect before he went any further; to which that gentleman replied that he was not in the habit of acting rashly, that a bet of twenty thousand pounds was at stake, that the elephant was absolutely necessary to him, and that he would secure him if he had to pay twenty times his value. Returning to the Indian, whose small, sharp eyes, glistening with avarice, betrayed that with him it was only a question of how great a price he could obtain. Mr. Fogg offered first twelve hundred, then fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, two thousand pounds. Passepartout, usually so rubicund, was fairly white with suspense.

Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside and urged him to think before going any further. Mr. Fogg replied that he was not in the habit of acting rashly. A bet of twenty thousand pounds was at stake, and the elephant was absolutely necessary to him. He would get the elephant even if he had to pay twenty times its value. Mr. Fogg returned to the Indian, whose small, sharp eyes glittered with greed. They showed that the only question for him was how high a price he could get. Mr. Fogg offered first twelve hundred, then fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, and two thousand pounds. Passepartout, usually so rosy-cheeked, was quite pale with suspense.

At two thousand pounds the Indian yielded.

At two thousand pounds, the Indian gave in.

“What a price, good heavens!” cried Passepartout, “for an elephant.”

“What a price, my goodness!” cried Passepartout, “for an elephant.”

It only remained now to find a guide, which was comparatively easy. A young Parsee, with an intelligent face, offered his services, which Mr. Fogg accepted, promising so generous a reward as to materially stimulate his zeal. The elephant was led out and equipped. The Parsee, who was an accomplished elephant driver, covered his back with a sort of saddle-cloth, and attached to each of his flanks some curiously uncomfortable howdahs. Phileas Fogg paid the Indian with some banknotes which he extracted from the famous carpet-bag, a proceeding that seemed to deprive poor Passepartout of his vitals. Then he offered to carry Sir Francis to Allahabad, which the brigadier gratefully accepted, as one traveller the more would not be likely to fatigue the gigantic beast. Provisions were purchased at Kholby, and, while Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg took the howdahs on either side, Passepartout got astride the saddle-cloth between them. The Parsee perched himself on the elephant’s neck, and at nine o’clock they set out from the village, the animal marching off through the dense forest of palms by the shortest cut.

All that remained was to find a guide, which was fairly easy. A young Parsee with an intelligent face offered his services, and Mr. Fogg accepted. He promised such a generous reward that the Parsee became much more eager to help. The elephant was led out and equipped. The Parsee, a skilled elephant driver, covered its back with a kind of saddlecloth. He attached some remarkably uncomfortable howdahs to its sides. Phileas Fogg paid the Indian with banknotes from the famous carpetbag. The sight seemed to take the life out of poor Passepartout. Then Fogg offered to take Sir Francis to Allahabad, and the brigadier gratefully accepted. One more traveler was unlikely to tire the enormous animal. They bought provisions at Kholby. Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg took the howdahs on either side, while Passepartout sat astride the saddlecloth between them. The Parsee perched on the elephant’s neck. At nine o’clock they left the village, and the elephant took the shortest route through the dense palm forest.