The train had left Bombay right on time.
Among the passengers were British officers, government officials, and merchants carrying opium and indigo toward the eastern coast. Passepartout was in the same carriage as Phileas Fogg. Sitting opposite them was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Fogg’s whist partners aboard the Mongolia. He was now traveling to Benares to rejoin his regiment.
Sir Francis was about fifty, tall and fair, and had earned a reputation for bravery during the recent Sepoy Rebellion. He had spent most of his life in India and knew the country almost as well as a native. He understood its people, customs, history, and traditions.
Phileas Fogg, however, had no interest in any of that.
To him, India was simply part of the route around the world.
He sat quietly, calculating how many hours had passed since he left London. Every minute mattered to him.
Sir Francis watched him with growing curiosity.
“Does this man even have a heart?” he wondered. “Can he appreciate a beautiful landscape? Does he feel anything at all?”
Of all the strange men Sir Francis had ever met, Phileas Fogg seemed the strangest.
Fogg had already told him about the wager and his plan to travel around the world.
Sir Francis thought the whole thing was nothing more than a foolish stunt.
“What good will this journey do him?” he wondered. “He may travel around the world and accomplish absolutely nothing useful.”
About an hour after leaving Bombay, the train crossed the bridges and left Salcette Island behind. Soon they were traveling through open country.
At Callyan, the train passed the junction leading toward southeastern India, through Kandallah and Pounah. After Pauwell, the railway entered a mountainous region. Dark basalt cliffs rose around them, covered at the top with thick green forests.
For a while, Fogg and Sir Francis said very little.
Then Sir Francis broke the silence.
“Mr. Fogg, if you had made this journey a few years ago, you would have faced a serious delay here. It might even have cost you your wager.”
“How so, Sir Francis?”
“The railway used to end at the foot of these mountains. Passengers had to cross them by palanquin or on horseback before reaching Kandallah.”
“That would not have changed my plans,” Fogg replied calmly. “I have always expected obstacles along the way.”
Sir Francis looked at him.
“There is another matter that may cause you trouble. I mean what happened at the pagoda with your servant.”
Passepartout was fast asleep, his feet wrapped comfortably in his traveling blanket. He had no idea they were discussing him.
“The government is very strict about such offenses,” Sir Francis continued. “They are determined to protect Indian religious customs. If your servant is arrested—”
“Then he will be arrested,” Fogg said calmly. “He will be tried and punished, and afterward he can return to Europe. I fail to see how that would delay me.”
Sir Francis had no answer.
The conversation ended.
During the night, the train crossed the mountains and passed Nassik. The following day, it traveled through the flat, fertile countryside of Khandeish.
The land was covered with fields and scattered villages. Tall minarets rose above the trees, and countless small rivers and clear streams flowed through the region, most of them eventually joining the Godavery River.
When Passepartout woke up and looked outside, he could hardly believe what he was seeing.
He was actually crossing India by train.
The locomotive was operated by an English engineer and burned English coal. Thick smoke drifted over plantations of cotton, coffee, nutmeg, cloves, and pepper.
Steam curled around tall palm trees.
Between the trees stood beautiful bungalows, old abandoned monasteries, and magnificent temples covered with elaborate Indian decorations.
Then the scenery changed again.
Vast jungles stretched all the way to the horizon. Snakes and tigers disappeared into the undergrowth as the train thundered past.
The railway then cut through dense forests.
Elephants still lived there. Some of them stood quietly among the trees, watching the train with thoughtful eyes as it rushed by.
Beyond Milligaum, the travelers entered a region with a terrible history.
For generations, followers of the goddess Kali had committed countless murders there.
Not far away stood Ellora, famous for its elegant temples, and Aurungabad, once the capital of the ruthless ruler Aureng-Zeb. It was now an important city in one of the separate provinces of the Nizam’s kingdom.
This was also the territory once controlled by Feringhea, the notorious Thuggee leader.
The Thuggees were members of a secret organization devoted to the goddess of death. They murdered travelers by strangling them, carefully avoiding the shedding of blood.
There had been a time when traveling through this part of India was extremely dangerous. Corpses could be found almost anywhere along the roads.
The British government had greatly reduced these murders, although the Thuggee tradition had not completely disappeared.
At half past twelve, the train stopped at Burhampoor.
Passepartout immediately went shopping.
He bought a pair of Indian slippers decorated with imitation pearls. He was so pleased with them that he proudly put them on at once.
The travelers quickly ate breakfast and continued toward Assurghur.
For a short distance, the train followed the Tapty River, which eventually flowed into the Gulf of Cambay near Surat.
By now, Passepartout had fallen into deep thought.
Until they reached Bombay, he had secretly hoped that the journey would end there.
But now they were racing across India at full speed.
Something had changed inside him.
His old adventurous spirit had returned.
The wild dreams of his youth came rushing back.
For the first time, he truly believed that his master meant to travel around the world.
He believed the wager was real.
And if the wager was real, then they had to finish the journey within the promised time.
Suddenly, every delay frightened him.
Every possible accident worried him.
He realized that he was personally involved in the wager, and he shuddered when he remembered his foolish behavior at the pagoda.
What if his stupidity had caused them to lose?
Unlike the calm and calculating Fogg, Passepartout became increasingly nervous.
He counted the days.
Then he counted them again.
Whenever the train stopped, he complained bitterly.
“Why is this train moving so slowly?”
He even blamed Fogg for not bribing the engineer.
The poor man did not understand that while bribing a ship’s crew might sometimes make a steamer go faster, it was not possible to make a railway train run faster in the same way.
Toward evening, the train entered the narrow passes of the Sutpour Mountains, which separated Khandeish from Bundelcund.
The next day, Sir Francis asked Passepartout what time it was.
Passepartout checked his watch.
“Three o’clock in the morning.”
Sir Francis stared at him.
“Your watch is wrong. It is actually seven.”
Passepartout’s famous watch was still set to London time.
Because London was now far to the west, his watch was nearly four hours behind the local time.
Sir Francis explained that travelers going east had to adjust their watches as they crossed different meridians. Since they were traveling toward the rising sun, each degree of longitude changed the length of the day by about four minutes.
Passepartout refused to accept the idea.
“I’m keeping my watch on London time,” he said stubbornly.
It was a harmless mistake, and no one could force him to change it.
At eight o’clock, the train suddenly stopped in a clearing about fifteen miles beyond Rothal.
There were several bungalows and workers’ cabins nearby.
The conductor walked through the train shouting:
“Passengers, get out here!”
Fogg looked at Sir Francis.
“What does this mean?”
Sir Francis looked just as confused.
“I have no idea.”
Passepartout jumped down from the train.
A moment later, he came running back.
“Monsieur!”
“What is it?”
“No more railway!”
Sir Francis frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“The train isn’t going any farther!”
Sir Francis immediately got out.
Fogg calmly followed him.
Together they walked toward the conductor.
“Where are we?” Sir Francis asked.
“At the village of Kholby.”
“And we are stopping here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The railway ends here.”
Sir Francis stared at him.
“What?”
“The railway hasn’t been completed.”
“Not completed?”
“No. There are still about fifty miles between here and Allahabad. The railway starts again there.”
“But the newspapers announced that the railway was complete all the way through!”
“The newspapers were wrong.”
Sir Francis was furious.
“Then why do you sell tickets from Bombay to Calcutta?”
“Because passengers know they must arrange their own transportation from Kholby to Allahabad.”
Sir Francis turned away in anger.
Passepartout was so furious that he felt like punching the conductor. Instead, he stood silently and avoided looking at Fogg.
Fogg remained completely calm.
“Sir Francis, shall we look for some way to reach Allahabad?”
“This is a serious delay, Mr. Fogg.”
“No, Sir Francis. It was expected.”
“You knew the railway would end here?”
“No.”
Sir Francis looked puzzled.
“Then how could you have expected it?”
“I knew that some obstacle would eventually appear. Nothing has been lost.”
He checked his calculations.
“I have already gained two days. I can afford to lose some of that time. A steamer leaves Calcutta for Hong Kong at noon on the twenty-fifth. Today is the twenty-second. We will reach Calcutta in time.”
Sir Francis could say nothing.
Fogg was right about one thing.
The railway really did end at Kholby.
The newspapers had announced its completion too early.
Most of the passengers already knew about the gap in the railway line. They climbed out and began looking for other forms of transportation.
There were all kinds of vehicles available in the village.
Some passengers hired four-wheeled palkigharis.
Others found wagons pulled by zebus.
There were strange-looking carriages decorated like moving pagodas, as well as palanquins and ponies.
Fogg and Sir Francis searched the village from one end to the other.
They found nothing suitable.
Finally, Fogg said:
“I shall walk.”
Passepartout made a miserable face.
He looked down at his beautiful new Indian slippers.
Walking fifty miles in those delicate shoes was not exactly what he had in mind.
Fortunately, he had continued searching while Fogg and Sir Francis were looking elsewhere.
After thinking for a moment, he said:
“Monsieur, I believe I have found a solution.”
“What is it?”
“An elephant.”
“An elephant?”
“Yes. There is one belonging to an Indian who lives about a hundred steps from here.”
Fogg immediately replied:
“Let us go and see it.”
They soon arrived at a small hut.
Behind a tall wooden fence stood the elephant.
The Indian owner came out and led them into the enclosure.
The animal had been raised not as an ordinary working elephant, but as a war elephant.
It was only partly domesticated.
Its owner had tried to make it aggressive by repeatedly irritating it and feeding it sugar and butter every three months. This was a method sometimes used to train elephants for battle.
Fortunately, the training had not gone very far.
The elephant remained naturally gentle.
Its name was Kiouni.
Fogg examined it carefully.
The animal was strong and could travel quickly for a long time.
Since there was no other way to cross the fifty miles, Fogg decided to hire it.
But elephants were expensive in India.
They were becoming increasingly rare, especially trained males, which were the only ones generally suitable for certain performances and heavy work.
Fogg approached the owner.
“I would like to hire your elephant to take us to Allahabad.”
The Indian immediately refused.
Fogg did not argue.
Instead, he made an offer.
“Ten pounds an hour.”
“No.”
“Twenty pounds an hour.”
The Indian shook his head.
“Forty pounds?”
Still no.
Passepartout stared at the man in disbelief.
Forty pounds an hour was an enormous amount of money.
If the journey took fifteen hours, the owner would receive six hundred pounds.
Yet he still refused.
Fogg remained calm.
“In that case, I will buy the elephant.”
“How much?”
“I will give you one thousand pounds.”
The Indian still refused.
Sir Francis pulled Fogg aside.
“Mr. Fogg, please think carefully before you offer any more.”
“I never act rashly, Sir Francis.”
“But this is becoming ridiculous.”
“A wager of twenty thousand pounds is at stake,” Fogg replied. “This elephant is essential. If necessary, I will pay twenty times its real value.”
He walked back to the Indian.
The man’s sharp eyes revealed exactly what he was thinking.
He had discovered that Fogg desperately needed the elephant.
Now he wanted to find out just how much money he could get.
Fogg made another offer.
“Twelve hundred pounds.”
The Indian refused.
“Fifteen hundred.”
Still no.
“Eighteen hundred.”
The Indian hesitated.
“Two thousand.”
The Indian finally nodded.
Passepartout, who was usually red-faced and cheerful, had turned completely pale with anxiety.
“Two thousand pounds!” he cried. “Good heavens! That much money for an elephant?”
The deal was done.
Now they needed a guide.
Fortunately, that was much easier.
A young Parsee with an intelligent face offered his services.
Fogg accepted and promised him a generous payment.
The elephant was brought out and prepared for the journey.
The Parsee was an experienced elephant driver. He placed a large cloth across Kiouni’s back and fixed uncomfortable howdahs to both sides.
Fogg took the money from his famous carpetbag and paid the Indian.
Passepartout looked as if the sight of all those banknotes being handed over had physically wounded him.
Fogg then turned to Sir Francis.
“Would you like to travel with us to Allahabad?”
Sir Francis gratefully accepted.
One more passenger would hardly make any difference to such a huge animal.
They bought food and supplies in Kholby.
Sir Francis and Fogg climbed into the two howdahs on either side of the elephant.
Passepartout sat between them on the cloth-covered back.
The Parsee climbed onto Kiouni’s neck.
At nine o’clock, they finally left the village.
Kiouni moved steadily into the dense palm forest, following the shortest possible route toward Allahabad.