What a Trip! (10 page)

“He's calculating how to hurry back to England the quickest way possible,” said Passepartout.

I frowned. “It's like he's counting the days until our incredible, ultimate field trip will be over.”

“I know,” said Frankie. “It makes me sort of sad.”

“Right,” I said. “So what happens when the trip is over? Aouda goes to find her cousin somewhere? And Mr. Fogg goes back to playing cards?”

Frankie nodded. “That's the sad part.”

“I think perhaps Mr. Fogg is a robot after all,” Passepartout said with a sigh.

But I looked at Fogg, remembering when he made the decision to save Aouda. And when he went off to rescue Frankie and Passepartout without a thought. He wasn't quite a robot then. There was something more there. I was sure of it.

During the first days of our voyage across the ocean, things went smoothly enough. The sails were hoisted high and the
Henrietta
plowed across the waves like a real transatlantic steamer. But on December 19, the seventy-eighth day of our trip, there was a problem.

A big problem.

The wind died to nothing and we ran out of fuel.

All of us were on deck when the first mate ran up to Captain Fogg. “We have no more coal,” he said. “We have been going full speed since New York. This has used up our entire fuel supply. Sorry, sir, but we are dead in the water. We cannot move.”

Fogg was silent for a moment, then nodded at Frankie and me. “Bring Captain Speedy to me, if you please.”

A few moments later, we unleashed the angry captain on deck. He was like his own personal typhoon. He stormed up to Fogg and shouted, “Where are we?”

“Seven hundred and seven miles from Liverpool, England,” replied Fogg calmly.

“Pirate!” boomed Captain Speedy.

“I have sent for you, sir,” said Fogg, “to buy the
Henrietta
. For I shall be forced to burn her.”

“Burn the
Henrietta!
. Are you insane?”

“Merely practical,” said Fogg. “I must burn all the wood on the ship in order to provide fuel for steam.”

“But my ship is worth five thousand pounds!”

“Here is six thousand pounds.” Fogg handed him two large wads of money.

This had an instant effect on Speedy. As his quivering hands took the money, a grin covered his face. “For me?”

“For the use of your ship. You may keep what is left of her,” said Fogg. “The iron hull and engine are yours. If we do not reach London by eight forty-five, on the evening of December twenty-first, exactly two days from now, I shall lose my entire fortune. So you see—”

Captain Speedy suddenly shouted to the crew. “Do as Captain Fogg commands! Full speed to England!”

Passepartout cheered. Aouda cheered. Even Fix did.

The crew leaped into action. Chairs, walls, masts, rafts, railings, even the deck itself, all were chopped up and shoved into the furnace. Thick black smoke billowed out from the smokestacks, and the ship lurched once more over the waves.

In a matter of hours, there was nothing left of the
Henrietta
but the hull and the spinning paddle wheels. It was no more than a flat hulk speeding over the sea.

But it was enough. When the sun rose at dawn on December 21, Passepartout sighted land. “England?”

“England!” cried Aouda in spite of herself.

We chugged into Liverpool harbor at twenty minutes before noon on December 21, the eightieth day.

We thanked the captain and he thanked us for such a memorable voyage. We stepped out onto the dock.

“England!” said Passepartout. “England!”

“Whoa,” I said to Frankie. “I can't believe it. We're nearly done. And we've nearly won!”

“In six hours we shall be London,” said Fogg. “That will give us exactly three hours and five minutes to clean up and appear at the Reform Club by eight forty-five this evening. Let us head to the train at once—”

But at that exact moment, Detective Fix stomped over, slapped his hand down on Fogg's shoulder, pulled his badge out, and said, “Phileas Fogg, by order of the Queen of England, I hereby put you under arrest!”

Chapter 20

Detective Fix was a rat.

He wouldn't listen to reason, either from us or from Mr. Fogg who, of course, protested that he was innocent of any crime. Ignoring everything, Fix and his policeman friends took us right off to the Liverpool jail.

Aouda burst into tears when we were led to the cell.

“This pretty much stinks,” I groaned. “And I'm not talking just about the odor of this room.”

“You'll be taken to London tomorrow,” said Fix, with a twist of his mustache. Then he left.

“Tomorrow!” Frankie growled, looking at the watch. It was so close to being the eightieth minute, it was obvious we only had a few hours left. “That'll be too late!”

“We won't get back home,” I said.

“I don't even care about getting home,” said Frankie. “Fogg is so not guilty, but his life is ruined, anyway. He's spent all his money on this trip, and he'll lose the bet on top of it.”

Frankie was right. I hardly cared about the zapper gates anymore. I cared about Fogg and Aouda and Passepartout.

It was way too depressing.

But you wouldn't know it by looking at Fogg himself.

If you came into the cell right then, you would have found him seated calmly on a wooden bench, not even looking angry. He stared at the dirty ceiling for a moment; then he took up his notebook and penciled in a line. It read:
Arrived in Liverpool, Saturday, December 21, 80th day, 11:40
A.M.

Then he waited, and we all waited with him.

One hour went by. Two hours. Three hours. We had less than seven hours now to make the six-hour journey to London.

Finally, Fogg breathed heavily. “I have tried to meet every obstacle we have encountered. But short of making an escape, there seems little chance now. My money is of no help here, it seems—”

It was at this point that we heard footsteps hurrying down the hall to the cell.

The door swung open and Detective Fix stumbled in, out of breath. “I am s-s-so sorry,” he stammered, bowing his head and scraping his feet. “Sir—forgive me—a most unfortunate mistake—the real robber—was arrested—three days ago—you—are free!”

“Yes!” Frankie and I whooped, jumping in the air and nearly hitting the ceiling. Aouda screamed for joy.

“Detective Fix,” said Mr. Fogg, narrrowing his eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Fogg …”

“I am not fond of you.”

“You are not?”

“No, I am not!”

Then, with probably the only emotion he had ever shown in his life, Mr. Fogg clenched his fist and let it fly.

Ka-pow!
It landed exactly on the tip of Fix's jaw.

When Detective Fix went down in a heap, we all cheered. When he sat up and rubbed his chin, his mustache was all crooked. “Yes, well, I deserved that, I'm sure.”

Before anybody could punch the weasel again, Frankie, Aouda, Passepartout, Fogg, and I were sailing out of the cell and straight to the Liverpool train station.

Frankie asked the ticket lady where the superfast express train to London was.

“It left,” she replied. “Thirty-five minutes ago.”

“Noooooooo!” I screamed. “I'm going to explode!”

“No—more—delays!” cried Frankie.

“I shall order a special train,” said Fogg, calmly taking the last few bills from the depths of his carpetbag.

Seconds later, the five of us were on a special train, flashing at top speed out of the station. The engineer really poured on the steam. We roared, we flew, we blurred past what was probably some nice scenery. But we saw none of it. Down to the wire, with only minutes left, the train screeched to a stop in London.

The Reform Club was only minutes away by foot.

But when we looked at the huge clock on the wall of the station, we couldn't believe it.

“I'm going to faint,” said Frankie.

“I already did!” I said.

The clock, the big stinking clock on the wall of the station, said it was eight fifty
P.M.

Having made a complete tour of the world, we were five minutes late.

Five minutes late!

Fogg had lost the wager.

But that wasn't all.

“Oh, my!” said Aouda. “What is that?”

In a dim, distant corner of the train station was a flickering blue light.

“The gates!” I gasped.

It was true. Mrs. Figglehopper's fizzling, sizzling, sparking, flashing zapper gates were there in the train station. But something was wrong. The lights were getting dimmer by the second.

“Excuse us!” Frankie said.

Together we raced across the giant room.

But by the time we got to the gates, the bright blue light had fizzled out completely.

The gates vanished.

And Frankie and I were stuck in 1872.

Forever.

Chapter 21

“It's not fair!” I said, stamping my feet.

Frankie was quiet for a while, then said, “It can't end like this. It just can't. I mean, what's the point of writing the book if you can't have a happy ending!”

We were five minutes too late.

And everything had changed.

Fogg had no money left. His fortune was gone, all spent in eighty days and five minutes. The rest of it belonged to the members of the Reform Club.

Aouda was in tears. Passepartout, for the first time in his life, was speechless. And Frankie and I were stuck in a world without junk food, CDs, or megahold hair gel.

We must have stared at that clock for an hour. But it didn't even matter anymore. Time meant nothing now.

“I have lost the wager,” said Fogg softly.

It was a short sentence, but it meant everything.

Then, with a sadness in his eyes that I'd never seen before, he said, “Please forgive me—all of you—for dragging you with me on this ill-fated tour of the world.”

We all objected, of course, and said that it was the best thing we'd ever done, but Fogg said no more. He just headed quietly back to his house at Number 7, Saville Row, where the story had started.

Of course, we followed him. There was nowhere else to go. Frankie and I had to sort out exactly what we would do. Without the zapper gates, we were lost.

Mr. Fogg told Passepartout to set up rooms for Aouda, Frankie, and me, then left us to be by himself.

“It really is unbelievable,” said Frankie when we gathered in Aouda's room.

“Yes,” said the princess, her eyes still moist with tears. “After having gone the entire way, overcome a hundred obstacles, faced many dangers, and saved lives—to have this happen! To fail so near his goal by this sudden, unexpected event!”

She couldn't go on. She went to sleep. Soon, so did Passepartout, still in shock at how things had ended up.

“Now what?” I said. “What does the book say?”

“Not much,” said Frankie. “We still have about fifteen pages left, but they're so blurry I can't read them. But I don't even want to. When we saw the gates at the train station, it was our last chance to get back before that guy fixed them back at the library.”

“Yeah, and now we're fixed. Fixed for good.”

“We're as stuck as stuck can be.”

I looked around. “So, do we just start living in 1872 now? I mean, what is there to do around now?”

She shrugged. I shrugged. Lots of shrugging going on, but no answers. Mostly, though, after eighty days on the road, Frankie and I were tired.

We found our rooms and went to sleep.

The next morning Fogg called for Passepartout with a message for Aouda. We helped him deliver it.

“Princess,” said Passepartout, “Mr. Fogg will remain alone all day, but he wishes to see you in the evening.”

“Probably to send you to your cousin in Holland,” I grumbled.

“We shall see,” said Aouda, becoming suddenly thoughtful. She didn't say much after that.

All through Sunday the house was pretty quiet. Fogg didn't go to the Reform Club as usual. There was no point. Since he had not appeared the night before—Saturday, December 21, at 8:45
P.M.
—he had lost the wager. There was no reason for him to see his friends.

At seven thirty that night, Mr. Fogg went to see Aouda. Passepartout, Frankie, and I snuck up to her room and peeked through a crack in the door.

Fogg was seated in a chair near the fireplace. Aouda sat in another chair facing him. Waiting a few minutes before saying anything, Fogg finally spoke.

“Will you pardon me for bringing you to England?”

You could see that Aouda was astonished by the question. “I, Mr. Fogg?” she said. “But I—”

“Please let me finish,” he went on. “When I decided to bring you far away from your country, I was rich, and I intended to give you some of my fortune so that you would be free and happy. But now I am ruined.”

She looked at him with those laky eyes. “I ask you to forgive me for having followed you and delayed you. Perhaps it is my fault you are ruined.”

“I could not let you be hurt,” he said. “But that is the past. Now I wish to give you whatever little I have left. It is yours.”

“But what will become of you, Mr. Fogg?” she asked. “Surely, your friends—”

“I have no real friends at the Reform Club,” he said. “Or family, either.”

She took a deep breath. “Solitude is a sad thing with no one to confide in. They say that two people might bear much more together.”

“Indeed,” said Fogg. “They do say so.”

“Mr. Fogg,” said Aouda, rising and taking his hand, “do you wish to have a friend and a family member at the same time? What I mean is, will you have me for your wife?”

There was a strange look in Fogg's eyes that we'd never seen before. He shut them for an instant, then popped them open, and said, “Yes. I do love you, Aouda, and I will be your husband!”