Around the World in 100 Days (8 page)

“Oh, you needn't worry,” said Harry. “Steam engines are actually quite safe.”

“Really? I seem to recall an American steamboat blowing up and killing something like two thousand passengers.”

Harry nodded. “Such accidents are nearly always due either to human error or to poor design. A properly built boiler has a pressure relief valve, plus a fusible plug that melts if the steam overheats.”

“You seem to know a good deal about steam engines.”

“Not compared to my friend Johnny; he knows them inside and out, backward and forward. He's built a steam-driven motorcar that's going to revolutionize the field of transportation.”

“A motorcar?” Most young women, when he mentioned machines, smiled politely and quickly changed the subject. This one seemed genuinely interested. “Does it actually run?”

“Yes, of course. We drove it here from London.”

“Really? Were you taking part in a road race?”

“In a way, yes. We mean to drive her around the world, you see.”

“Around the world? Is that even possible?”

“All I know is, we're going to give it a devil of a try. Pardon my language, Miss—”

The young woman held out her hand, which was unfashionably bare. “Elizabeth.”

Harry was surprised at the firmness of her handshake. “Harry Fogg. I'm pleased to meet you. But I don't feel I know you well enough to call you by your first name.”

“If you don't mind, I'd prefer not to reveal my family name.” Elizabeth leaned into him and said confidentially, “It's one you'd readily recognize, you see, and I'm traveling incognito.”

“I don't mind. But if you have a chaperone, she may object to my being so familiar.”

“I'm traveling alone, actually.”

“Is that safe?”

“I can take care of myself,” the young woman said, rather haughtily.

“Yes, I daresay you can.” Harry leaned against the rail and gazed at the distant docks. The crowd had drifted away. He wondered whether their interest in him would fade, too, now that he was out of their sight. He rather hoped the public and the papers would forget about the journey, or at least stop comparing it with Phileas Fogg's. The point was not to duplicate or surpass what his father had done, but to prove the worth of the
Flash
and of motorcars in general. “I can understand your not wanting to give your family's name. There are times when I'd just as soon people didn't know who my father is, or what he's done.”

“Oh?” said Elizabeth, her eyes wide. “What
has
he done?”

“You don't know?”

“I'm afraid not. Is it something dreadful? Never mind, you needn't tell me. We'll
both
be incognito.”

“Good. Just call me Harry, then.” He laughed. “Of course, there's really no way I can prevent you knowing about my father; all you have to do is pick up a London paper.”

“I don't read newspapers. I prefer a good book.” As if she'd seen enough of England for a while, she turned her back to the railing. “I'd like to know more about this motorcar of yours, Harry. Is it on the ship?”

“She's in the hold. Would you like to see her?”

“Very much. One thing, though.”

“What's that?”

“Would you mind not referring to it as ‘she'? I find it insulting to be placed in the same category as a machine.”

“Oh. Sorry. It's just that I think of h—of
it
as something more than a machine—a living thing, almost.”

“Really. Well, feel free to call it ‘he' if you like. I don't object to that.”

NINE
In which

O
ne of the crew escorted them to the hold, but stayed at a discreet distance. Harry suspected that he mistook them for sweethearts; they looked near enough in age. He didn't disillusion the man; he rather liked being seen as the beau of such an attractive, self-assured young woman.

Elizabeth kept a tight grip on Harry's arm as they made their way between the piles of packing crates. Though there were several electric lamps overhead, they cast more shadows than light. “I should warn you,” Harry said. “We may come upon Johnny Shaugnessey. If we do, he's likely to behave a bit . . . well, oddly. He doesn't like people very much, particularly strangers.”

“Oh, he'll like me,” said Elizabeth. “Everyone does.”

The
Flash
sat between two stacks of wooden barrels, its wheels secured to the floor by chains. There was no sign of Johnny; Harry assumed he had retreated to their cabin.

Elizabeth seemed eager to learn all about the steam car, and Harry was happy to oblige. He opened a metal door on the side to show her the boiler. “You see, it has both a kerosene burner and a firebox, which can be fueled with almost anything, from coal to corncobs.”

“What a good idea. You're not likely to ever run out of fuel, then. Where is the engine?”

“Under here.” Harry leaned over to lift the rear seat, only to discover a body curled up there, half hidden in the shadows. “Johnny?” he whispered.

Johnny shook his head urgently, as if to say
Just pretend I'm not here
. But it was too late. Elizabeth had climbed up on the running board and was gazing down at him.

“Hello. You must be Johnny.” She held out her hand. “I'm Elizabeth.”

Johnny ignored her and gave Harry a pleading look.

“I expect he's been having a nap,” said Harry, “and is still a bit groggy. Perhaps we should let him be.”

“Of course. It's just that . . . Well, I was hoping you might be willing to answer a few small questions I have about your motorcar, Mr. Shaugnessey.”

Harry hid a smile. The young woman was smart. She didn't address Johnny the way most people did—as though he were feebleminded, or a child. And she guessed rightly that the surest way to bring the lad out of his shell was to display an interest in the
Flash
.

Johnny sat up hesitantly, pulling his cap down so that it hid not only his scar but the tops of his ears. “What?” he murmured warily.

“For one thing, I was wondering how many pounds per square inch of steam she can handle.”

“We've had her up to four hundred,” said Johnny.

“You've fitted her with a pressure gauge?”

Johnny nodded and pointed out the gauge. “Water-level indicator, too.”

“Very clever,” said Elizabeth. “How much water does she use?”

“Twenty-five gallons, London to Liverpool.”

“That little? How did you—Oh, I see. You've equipped her with a condenser.”

Johnny and Harry traded glances that said,
This young lady knows a thing or two
.

Elizabeth rapped the fender with her knuckles. “That's not steel. Aluminum, I'm guessing?”

Assuming that Johnny was about talked out, Harry answered. “That's right.”

“She must be very lightweight.”

“Three thousand pounds,” said Johnny.

“Really? And how many horsepower?” asked Elizabeth.

“Not sure. Thirty, maybe.”

“How do you manage that, with such a small engine?”

This was beyond Johnny's capacity. He glanced at Harry.

“Well,” said Harry, “in addition to the two highpressure cylinders, there's an extra set of low-pressure cylinders; they make use of the power that would be wasted otherwise, you see.” Fearing this might be over her head, he added, “Does that make sense to you?”

“Just because I'm woman,” she said, “it doesn't necessarily follow that I'm stupid.”

Harry felt uncharacteristically flustered and awkward. “I—I wasn't suggesting you were. I was only—”

She smiled sweetly and put a hand on his arm. “I know. I forgive you.” She turned to Johnny. “One more question, if you don't mind.” Johnny shrugged. Elizabeth moved so close to him that he drew back a little; in a low voice, as though inquiring about some secret matter, she said, “How fast will she go?”

Now she had Johnny flustered—not a difficult thing to do. “I—I—”

“We had her up to thirty miles per hour on the open road,” said Harry.

Her eyes widened and, even in the dim light, Harry could see that they were a deep blue, like the gem-stone called lapis lazuli, which was the centerpiece of his mother's favorite necklace.

“Thirty miles per hour? It sounds exhilarating.”

“Oh, yes, it's splendid fun. I wish you could take a ride in her. Him. It.”

“Well, who knows? Perhaps I shall, when we reach New York. I wouldn't want to delay you, of course. You have such a terribly long trip ahead of you; I'm sure you'll want to set out at once.”

“We could always deliver you to your destination, if it's on our way.”

“Thank you for the offer,” she said. “I'll consider it.”

“There's lots of room,” put in Johnny.

“Yes,” said Harry. “There are only three of us, so there's an empty seat.”

“Three of you?”

“Charles Hardiman is the third. I don't know what's become of him.”

“Hardiman? The son of the railroad magnate?”

“You know him?”

“I know
of
him. I find it hard to imagine that he would enjoy traveling around the world in a motorcar.”

“Yes, well, so do I. I'll be surprised if he lasts much beyond Philadelphia.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I believe
I'd
enjoy it. Perhaps I should go along in his place.”

Harry realized that she was only joking, and he joined in the laughter. At the same time, he rather wished it were possible. “It won't be any cakewalk,” he said. “In any case, I'm sure you have far better things to do.” But if she did, she declined to reveal them.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for showing me your motorcar. And now, if you will excuse me, I should find my cabin and freshen up.”

“I'll accompany you,” Harry said.

“No,” she replied brusquely, then added, more civilly, “Thank you. I'm quite capable of finding my way.” As she walked away, Harry saw the crewman speak briefly to her—probably offering to escort her as well, for she shook her head emphatically and proceeded up the stairs to the upper decks.

“Well,” said Harry. “What an extraordinary girl.”

“She's beautiful,” said Johnny.

“Do you think so? Her nose is a bit small and turned up for my taste, and her lips rather too thin. Interesting, though, definitely interesting.”

“Will we see her again?”

“No doubt. Second class is not exactly a vast realm, and we'll be sharing it for six or seven days. We're sure to run into her—in the dining room, if nowhere else.”

“Oh,” said Johnny, glumly.

Harry glanced at him in surprise. “I thought you liked her.”

“I did.”

“Then what's the—? Oh. I see. It's the prospect of eating in a dining room that has you worried, eh? Too many people, I expect.”

Johnny nodded.

“Well, you can have your meals in the cabin if you like.” He nudged his friend playfully. “Unfortunately, Miss Elizabeth won't be there.”

To Harry's surprise, Charles Hardiman was not in the cabin, nor was his huge portmanteau. There was, in fact, no sign that he had ever been there. When four o'clock came, Harry headed for the dining room, certain that a young gentleman as conventional as Charles would never miss afternoon tea.

He was wrong. Just when Harry began to fear—or, more accurately, to hope—that something had happened to his companion, a steward handed him a message that read, in precise, careful script:
Fogg: The cabin was too cramped and dreary to be borne. Have taken a berth in first class. H.

Well, at least they would be spared Hardiman's company for a few more days. It would have been better had he abandoned them altogether, but Harry was thankful for small favors. As he piled his plate with tiny cucumber sandwiches and smoked salmon, he glanced at the passengers grouped around the linen-covered dining tables. Though there were several attractive young women, Elizabeth was not among them. Harry felt an unfamiliar pang of disappointment.

He lingered awhile longer, on the off chance that Elizabeth might turn up. At last he shrugged and headed back to the cabin, balancing Johnny's plate of food, whistling a lively chorus of “There's a Good Time Coming” to show that he was his usual carefree self.

TEN
In which

O
ne of the items Harry had purchased back in London was a brown tweed suit for Johnny; knowing his friend would never visit a tailor, Harry had bought a reach-me-down, or ready-made suit, and guessed at the proper measurements.

He coaxed Johnny into donning the jacket and trousers and joining the other second-class passengers for dinner, assuring him that Elizabeth would be there. She was not. Johnny, his cap jammed on his head, wordlessly wolfed down a plateful of roast mutton and potatoes, then retreated to the cabin.

The blowsy, overdressed woman opposite Harry said indignantly, “Such coarse behavior! His sort belong in steerage, not second class! I believe I shall speak to the captain.”

“I wouldn't do that if I were you, madam,” said Harry.

“And why not?”

“Hasn't anyone told you?” Harry glanced around furtively, then said, in a near-whisper, “You've heard of Thomas Edison?”