In Which Phileas Fogg Astounds Passepartout, His Servant.

Having won twenty guineas at whist, and taken leave of his friends, Phileas Fogg, at twenty-five minutes past seven, left the Reform Club.

Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied the programme of his duties, was more than surprised to see his master guilty of the inexactness of appearing at this unaccustomed hour; for, according to rule, he was not due in Saville Row until precisely midnight.

Mr Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out, `Passepartout!'

Passepartout did not reply. It could not be he who was called; it was not the right hour.

`Passepartout!' repeated Mr Fogg, without raising his voice.

Passepartout made his appearance.

`I've called you twice,' observed his master.

`But it is not midnight,' responded the other, showing his watch.

`I know it; I don't blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes.'

A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout's round face, clearly he had not comprehended his master.

`Monsieur is going to leave home?'

`Yes,' returned Phileas Fogg. `We are going round the world.'

Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands, and seemed about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied astonishment.

`Round the world!' he murmured.

`In eighty days,' responded Mr Fogg. `So we haven't a moment to lose.'

`But the trunks?' gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head from right to left.

`We'll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We'll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and travelling-cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!'

Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his own room, fell into a chair, and muttered: `That's good, that is! And I, who wanted to remain quiet!'

He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure. Around the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke, then? They were going to Dover; good. To Calais; good again. After all, Passepartout, who had been away from France five years, would not be sorry to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would go as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt, - but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away, this so domestic person hitherto!

By eight o'clock Passepartout had packed the modest carpet-bag, containing the wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still troubled in mind, he carefully shut the door of his room, and descended to Mr Fogg.

Mr Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a red-bound copy of `Bradshaw's Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide,' with its time-tables showing the arrival and departure

  By PanEris using Melati.

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