Around the World in 100 Days (19 page)

“I'd tell you all about it,” called Harry over his shoulder, “but we have a ship to catch!” He sped off down the dock, zigzagging between small mountains of crates and barrels, sending longshoremen scuttling for safety.

By the time they located the
City of Peking
, dock-workers were casting off the ship's mooring lines. Harry could hear the huge engines throbbing. “Pardon me, sir!” he called to the first mate, who was leaning over the rail. “Can you possibly take us aboard?”

“I could take the passengers!” shouted the man. “But we can't afford the time to load your vehicle! We're running late already!” The gap between the ship and the dock was quickly growing wider.

Elizabeth stood up on the rear seat of the
Flash
. “Sir! I am a correspondent for the London
Daily Graphic
. And this is the son of the famous Phileas Fogg! He's attempting to circle the globe!”

“You don't say? I've been reading all about you in the newspapers!”

“Then you know he has a deadline! And if you don't let him and his motorcar on board, he won't make it!”

The first mate spread his hands helplessly. “I'm sorry, ma'am! The Pacific Mail Line has a schedule to keep, too!”

“It also has a reputation to keep!” shouted Elizabeth. “And I'll see to it that—” Her words were drowned out by a blast from the
City of Peking
's steam whistle. She stamped her foot angrily and uttered some epithets that Harry was just as glad he couldn't hear, for he suspected they were not very ladylike.

TWENTY-THREE
In which

H
arry slumped wearily onto the running board of the
Flash
and put his head in his hands. Elizabeth brushed at the dirt that caked the board and then sat next to him. “Don't take it so hard, Harry. Surely you can change your plans a bit, sail to some other Chinese port, perhaps.”

“I know. It's not that. I was just thinking ...”

“What?”

“Well, I was thinking about what my father would have done in this situation.”

“That's easy. He would have offered the shipping line so much money, they couldn't possibly refuse.”

“Exactly. Whereas I may not even be able to pay our fare, unless we travel Chinese steerage.”

“That's because he has a fortune, and you don't.” Elizabeth rose and dusted herself off. “You know, I did a good deal of research on your father, but I never managed to learn how he came by all his money.”

“I'm afraid I can't enlighten you. He never speaks of it to anyone, not even me.”

“Do you think he's hiding some dark secret?”

Harry laughed. “My father? Not likely. He's hardly the sort who murders rich old widows, or embezzles funds from a bank. I expect it was something as mundane as purchasing the right stock at the right time.” Harry rose, too, and drew a deep breath. “Well. We'd best get a steamship schedule and see how long we're likely to be stranded here. Then we'll look for some very cheap lodgings.”

Elizabeth penned a few more paragraphs, then went in search of the Western Union office. The harbormaster advised her to take Harry along; though San Francisco boasted a high percentage of millionaires and some very posh neighborhoods, other sections of the city were as dreadful and dangerous as any slum in London, and that was saying a lot.

Londoners liked to complain about the noise and the dirt that filled their city's air, but in both respects San Francisco had the English city beat. An acrid, yellow-gray haze hung over the streets, a product of the sulfurous coal that was burned by nearly every householder, factory owner, and steamship captain. And on top of the inevitable clamor of urban life, San Francisco had added a new layer of sound—the clatter and squeal of the dozens of cable cars that labored up the city's steep hills.

Harry found the mechanics of the cable system fascinating. While Elizabeth sent her telegram to the
Graphic
, he stood gawking at the trolleys that rolled down the middle of Market Street. It was a quarter hour or more before Elizabeth emerged from Western Union, looking distraught.

“They didn't wire you any money, did they?” said Harry.

“They sent no reply at all. I don't know what to think. Perhaps I'll return later and see whether they've responded.” She sighed. “I was so hoping to have a decent meal, in a real restaurant.”

As usual, Harry's pride got the better of his common sense. “Well, I expect I can afford to buy you dinner,” he lied, and proceeded to choose the most elegant eatery on the block. As they waited to be seated, Elizabeth eyed the other women's attire—and, Harry noticed, self-consciously smoothed her own rumpled, dusty traveling outfit. “They're wearing the same fashions as the London ladies,” she whispered.

“What did you expect?” said Harry. “Buckskins and wampum beads?”

She gave one of her uninhibited laughs, turning the heads of several diners—including a very familiar blond-haired one. “Good heavens!” gasped Elizabeth. “It's Charles!”

“Hang me,” murmured Harry. “So it is.” When the hostess came to seat them, Harry told her, “We're joining friends, at that table.” He nodded toward Charles and his dinner companion, a jowly, middle-aged fellow with the outmoded style of overgrown sideburns known as dundrearies. Both gentlemen sprang from their chairs when Elizabeth approached the table.

“May we?” said Elizabeth.

“Of course,” replied Charles. He introduced them to the older man, whose name was Drummond and who was, it seemed, an old friend and business associate of Julius Hardiman. “We met at the hotel where I've been staying,” Charles explained.

“I should have thought you'd be well on your way to England by now,” said Elizabeth.

“No.” Clearly uncomfortable, Charles turned the stem of his water glass between his fingers. “As a matter of fact ...” He paused and cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, I've been waiting for you three. I've been checking in at the telegraph office, on the assumption that you'd wire your newspaper when you arrived.”

“Why?” asked Elizabeth.

“Well, frankly, I was hoping that I might rejoin the
Flash
.”

“After you tried to sabotage her?”

“But I didn't, you know. It was all a misunderstanding. I lost my fountain pen and was searching for it, that's all. Johnny thought I was up to no good, and he wouldn't listen to reason. I was hoping that, once you'd all had time to cool down and reconsider ...”

“We have reconsidered,” said Harry. “You see, I found the pen.”

Elizabeth gave him an incredulous look. “Why didn't you tell
me
that?”

“Johnny asked me not to. He didn't want you to think him foolish or impetuous, knocking poor Hardiman about for no reason.”

“I knocked
him
about a bit, as well,” Charles hastened to say.

“I know. You gave him quite a bruise.”

“Did I?” Charles sounded rather gratified.

“Listen, Hardiman,” said Harry, “if we were mistaken about you, I apologize.”

“Well, you
were
mistaken; I assure you, I had no intention of damaging the car.”

Harry studied him a moment, then extended a hand, which Charles shook in his customary limp manner.

“Well, now that's settled,” said the man named Drummond, “shall we order some dinner? I'm famished.”

Like Charles's father, Drummond was a railroad man; in fact he had come to America to explore the feasibility of building a new line through Canada to Alaska. He did not, however, share Julius Hardiman's contempt for horseless carriages. In fact, he agreed with Harry that the motorcar would revolutionize transportation, and he intended to be a part of that revolution.

“What would it take for me to get a look at that machine of yours?” he asked. “Perhaps even take her for a spin?”

“Oh, I'm afraid they never let anyone else drive her,” said Elizabeth pointedly.

“Is that so?” Drummond did not look pleased; clearly he was, like Charles's father, accustomed to getting his way.

Harry grinned amiably. “I suppose we might be able to arrange something.”

“Excellent!” The man rubbed his pudgy hands together. Elizabeth gave Harry a scathing look that he did his best to ignore.

Drummond was in such good spirits that he insisted on paying for everyone's meal, including the roast beef sandwiches Harry ordered for Johnny. As the foursome left the restaurant, Elizabeth whispered, “You're going to let him drive the
Flash
?”

Harry shrugged. “A short distance, perhaps.”

“You wouldn't let
me
drive her!”

“That's different.”

“Because he's a man, is that it?”

“No. The difference is, if Drummond wrecks her, he can afford to pay for the damage.”

While Charles escorted Elizabeth to the harbormaster's house, Harry took Drummond to the warehouse where Johnny stood guard over the
Flash
. Since it was growing dark, Drummond had to content himself with examining the car and asking a string of questions, some quite technical.

Harry's replies were purposely vague. He knew very well what the man was up to: Drummond meant to find out all he could about the
Flash
and use the information to build a machine of his own. Seeing that he was wasting his time, Drummond gave a tolerant smile. “Well, Mr. Shaugnessey, Mr. Fogg, you've constructed a very impressive machine. I'll return Monday for that drive you promised me.”

Johnny shot his friend a glance that clearly said,
You're going to let him drive?

“If you don't mind,” said Harry, “I believe I'll walk with you a way, sir.” Over his shoulder he called, “I'll be back to take my turn at guard duty, Johnny.”

“Never mind,” said Johnny sullenly. “I'll do it.”

It felt good to be on foot for a change. They walked to Drummond's hotel on Market Street, discussing motorcars and machines all the way. When they parted, Harry's mind was still so occupied that his sense of direction temporarily deserted him. With night coming on, he found himself in the unsavory section of the city that the locals referred to as “south of the Slot”—the channel in the center of Market Street that contained the trolley tracks.

There were no millionaires' mansions here, only overcrowded tenements; no grand hotels, only seedy rooming houses; no theaters or opera houses, only rowdy music halls; no elegant restaurants, only saloons filled with drunken sailors and the thieves and women of ill repute who competed for the sailors' money.

It did not occur to Harry to turn back. He was certain that, if he kept heading downhill, he would reach the docks soon. He did wish, however, that he had thought to bring along the revolver. Not that he would actually shoot anyone, not unless he was in mortal danger. But the feel of a gun stuck in his waistband would have been reassuring.

A row of gas lamps, like those along Market Street, would have been reassuring, too. But there were none in this neighborhood, only an occasional light at the door of a saloon or music hall. As Harry passed through one of the pools of darkness, he saw the shadows ahead of him shift and heard a guttural voice growl, “Now, don't make trouble for yourself, wog. Just hand over your money.”

TWENTY-FOUR
In which

H
arry flattened against a crumbling brick wall and peered into the blackness. He could barely make out two figures standing perhaps ten yards from him. One was a burly fellow in a dark coat, brandishing some small object—a knife, Harry guessed. The other was tall and slender, with what appeared to be a turban on his head and a satchel of some sort in one hand. Apparently he, not Harry, was the thief's target.

Harry stood still as stone and breathed as softly as he could while he considered his next move. Though he was impulsive, he was not about to throw himself upon a man carrying a knife.

“Let's have the bag!” the thief growled.

“I am sorry,” said the other man, in a surprisingly calm voice, “but I cannot do that.” He set the satchel on the cobblestones, removed his frock coat, folded it carefully, and placed it atop the satchel.

“All right,” said the thief. “If that's the way you want it, wog.” He shuffled forward, waving the knife as though he relished the prospect of using it.

Instead of retreating, the turbaned fellow took up a defensive position, one unlike any Harry had ever seen. Crouching low, the man raised his front leg and thrust his arms to one side, the elbows bent, the fingers curled.

Harry did not wait to see what would happen next. He snatched up a chunk of broken brick and went into a stance of his own—that of a crack cricket bowler. He swung his arm in a circle and let the brick fly; it caught the burly man square in the center of the chest. With a hoarse cry that was equal parts pain and astonishment, he staggered backward; his knife clattered onto the cobbles.