Jules Verne · a new plain-English translation from the original language
It is time to tell here what turnaround of opinion had come about in the United Kingdom when the arrest of the true thief of the Bank—a certain James Strand—became known, which had taken place on December 17, at Edinburgh.
Three days before, Phileas Fogg was a criminal whom the police were hunting to the utmost, and now he was the most honest of gentlemen, carrying out mathematically his eccentric journey around the world.
What an effect, what a stir in the newspapers! All the bettors for or against, who had already forgotten this affair, came back to life as if by magic. All the transactions became valid once more. All the engagements revived, and, it must be said, the betting resumed with fresh energy. The name of Phileas Fogg once again commanded a premium on the market.
The gentleman's five colleagues, at the Reform Club, spent these three days in a certain anxiety. This Phileas Fogg whom they had forgotten rose again before their eyes! Where could he be at this moment? On December 17—the day James Strand was arrested—it had been seventy-six days since Phileas Fogg's departure, and not a word from him! Had he succumbed? Had he given up the struggle, or was he continuing his march along the agreed itinerary? And on Saturday, December 21, at eight forty-five in the evening, was he going to appear, like the god of exactitude, on the threshold of the Reform Club drawing-room?
One must give up trying to paint the anxiety in which, for three days, all this world of English society lived. Dispatches were fired off to America, to Asia, to get news of Phileas Fogg! Morning and evening someone was sent to watch the Saville Row house... Nothing. The police themselves no longer knew what had become of Detective Fix, who had so unluckily flung himself onto a false trail. Which did not stop the bets from being laid again on a vaster scale. Phileas Fogg, like a racehorse, was coming into the last turn. He was no longer quoted at a hundred, but at twenty, but at ten, but at five, and old Lord Albermale, paralytic as he was, took him at even odds.
And so, on the Saturday evening, there was a crowd in Pall Mall and the neighboring streets. It was like an immense throng of brokers, permanently posted near the Reform Club. Traffic was blocked. People argued, disputed, shouted the quotations of "Phileas Fogg," as they would those of the English funds. The policemen had great trouble holding back the crowd, and as the hour approached at which Phileas Fogg was due to arrive, the excitement swelled to unbelievable proportions.
That evening, the gentleman's five colleagues had been gathered since nine o'clock in the great drawing-room of the Reform Club. The two bankers, John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the engineer Andrew Stuart, Gauthier Ralph, administrator of the Bank of England, the brewer Thomas Flanagan, all waited anxiously.
At the moment when the clock of the great drawing-room marked eight twenty-five, Andrew Stuart, rising, said:
"Gentlemen, in twenty minutes, the deadline agreed between Mr. Phileas Fogg and ourselves will have expired.
—At what time did the last train from Liverpool arrive? asked Thomas Flanagan.
—At seven twenty-three, replied Gauthier Ralph, and the next train does not arrive until ten past midnight.
—Well then, gentlemen, Andrew Stuart went on, if Phileas Fogg had come in by the seven twenty-three train, he would already be here. We may therefore consider the wager as won.
—Let us wait, let us not pronounce, replied Samuel Fallentin. You see that our colleague is an eccentric of the first order. His punctuality in everything is well known. He never arrives either too late or too early, and were he to appear here at the last minute, I should not be otherwise surprised.
—And I, said Andrew Stuart, who was, as always, very nervous, were I to see him I would not believe it.
—Indeed, resumed Thomas Flanagan, Phileas Fogg's plan was madness. Whatever his punctuality, he could not keep inevitable delays from occurring, and a lag of just two or three days was enough to wreck his journey.
—You will note, besides, added John Sullivan, that we have had no news from our colleague, and yet the telegraph wires were not lacking along his route.
—He has lost, gentlemen, resumed Andrew Stuart, he has lost a hundred times over! You know, moreover, that the China—the only New York steamer he could have taken to reach Liverpool in good time—arrived yesterday. Now, here is the passenger list, published by the Shipping Gazette, and the name of Phileas Fogg does not appear on it. Granting the most favorable chances, our colleague is barely in America! I reckon at twenty days, at the least, the delay he will run behind the agreed date, and old Lord Albermale will be out his five thousand pounds too!
—That is obvious, replied Gauthier Ralph, and tomorrow we shall have only to present Mr. Fogg's check at Baring Brothers."
At this moment the drawing-room clock struck eight forty.
"Five minutes more," said Andrew Stuart.
The five colleagues looked at one another. One may believe that the beating of their hearts had undergone a slight quickening, for after all, even for fine players, the stakes were high! But they wished to let nothing of it show, and so, on Samuel Fallentin's suggestion, they took their places at a card table.
"I would not give up my share of four thousand pounds in the wager, said Andrew Stuart as he sat down, even were I offered three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine!"
The hand marked, at this moment, eight forty-two.
The players had taken up the cards, but, at every instant, their eyes fixed on the clock. One may assert that, whatever their sense of security, never had minutes seemed so long to them!
"Eight forty-three," said Thomas Flanagan, cutting the deck that Gauthier Ralph held out to him.
Then a moment of silence fell. The vast drawing-room of the club was still. But, outside, one could hear the hubbub of the crowd, dominated at times by shrill cries. The pendulum of the clock beat the seconds with mathematical regularity. Each player could count the sexagesimal divisions that struck his ear.
"Eight forty-four!" said John Sullivan in a voice in which an involuntary emotion could be felt.
One minute more, and the wager was won. Andrew Stuart and his colleagues were no longer playing. They had put down the cards! They were counting the seconds!
The fortieth second came, nothing. The fiftieth, nothing still!
At the fifty-fifth, there was heard from outside something like thunder, applause, hurrahs, and even curses, which spread in a continuous roll.
The players rose.
On the fifty-seventh second, the salon door swung open, and the pendulum had not struck the sixtieth second when Phileas Fogg came into view, followed by a delirious crowd that had forced the entrance of the club, and in his calm voice:
"Here I am, gentlemen," he said.