Around the World in 80 Days | Page 6

at the same instant. "That's good, that'll
do," said Passepartout to himself.
He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon inspection, proved to be a
programme of the daily routine of the house. It comprised all that was required of the
servant, from eight in the morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past
eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club--all the details of service, the tea and
toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past
nine, and the toilet at twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen
that was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at which the
methodical gentleman retired.
Mr. Fogg's wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair of trousers, coat,
and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year and season at which they were in turn
to be laid out for wearing; and the same system was applied to the master's shoes. In short,
the house in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and unrest
under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness, comfort, and method idealised.
There was no study, nor were there books, which would have been quite useless to Mr.
Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law and
politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed so
as to defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting
weapons anywhere; everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits.
Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile
overspread his features, and he said joyfully, "This is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get
on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine;
well, I don't mind serving a machine."


Chapter III
IN WHICH A CONVERSATION TAKES PLACE WHICH SEEMS LIKELY TO COST
PHILEAS FOGG DEAR
Phileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half-past eleven, and having put his
right foot before his left five hundred and seventy-five times, and his left foot before his
right five hundred and seventy-six times, reached the Reform Club, an imposing edifice
in Pall Mall, which could not have cost less than three millions. He repaired at once to the
dining-room, the nine windows of which open upon a tasteful garden, where the trees
were already gilded with an autumn colouring; and took his place at the habitual table,
the cover of which had already been laid for him. His breakfast consisted of a side-dish, a
broiled fish with Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of roast beef garnished with mushrooms, a
rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a morsel of Cheshire cheese, the whole being washed
down with several cups of tea, for which the Reform is famous. He rose at thirteen

minutes to one, and directed his steps towards the large hall, a sumptuous apartment
adorned with lavishly-framed paintings. A flunkey handed him an uncut Times, which he
proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed familiarity with this delicate operation. The
perusal of this paper absorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, whilst the
Standard, his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour. Dinner passed as breakfast had
done, and Mr. Fogg re-appeared in the reading-room and sat down to the Pall Mall at
twenty minutes before six. Half an hour later several members of the Reform came in and
drew up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were Mr. Fogg's
usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin,
bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the
Bank of England-- all rich and highly respectable personages, even in a club which
comprises the princes of English trade and finance.
"Well, Ralph," said Thomas Flanagan, "what about that robbery?"
"Oh," replied Stuart, "the Bank will lose the money."
"On the contrary," broke in Ralph, "I hope we may put our hands on the robber. Skilful
detectives have been sent to all the principal ports of America and the Continent, and he'll
be a clever fellow if he slips through their fingers."
"But have you got the robber's description?" asked Stuart.
"In the first place, he is no robber at all," returned Ralph, positively.
"What! a fellow who makes off with fifty-five thousand pounds, no robber?"
"No."
"Perhaps he's a manufacturer, then."
"The Daily Telegraph says that he is a gentleman."
It was Phileas Fogg, whose head now emerged from behind his newspapers, who made
this remark. He bowed to his friends, and entered into the