Read Online Philip Jose Farmer by The Other Log of Phileas Fogg - Free Book Online Page A

known it immediately. But my pride prevented it. And though the description does fit me, in general that is, it is vague in particulars.”
    “What will we do?”
    “Proceed as planned,” Mr. Fogg calmly replied.
    “But if you are arrested at Bombay?”
    “All taken care of.”
    Passepartout did not ask him what his plans were. He would only have received a cold stare and rightly so. If he were to fall into the hands of the enemy, the less he knew the better. Nevertheless, Fogg did tell Passepartout to encourage the drinking in the bar with Fix. Passepartout, who had a strong head for strong liquor, considering he was a Frenchman, was to pretend to have his tongue loosened by the pale ale and whiskey with which Fix was daily plying him. He was to tell Fix nothing except what he would have known if master and valet were exactly what they pretended to be.
    Passepartout reported that Fix was continuing the hints he’d made during their first supposedly chance meeting on the  Mongolia . These were that Fogg’s trip was a blind for some other mission, possibly diplomatic. Fix also kept urging the Frenchman to adjust his watch to the sun. Fogg told Passepartout to shadow Fix to determine if he was communicating with anybody.
    At thirty minutes after four in the afternoon, the two world travelers stepped onto the soil of Bombay. Verne says that Fogg gave his servant some errands to do after telling him he must be at the railroad station at eight that evening. And then, with his clockwork gait, he proceeded to the passport office. He exhibited no curiosity whatever about the architectural wonders of this jewel of India. This was to be expected from his character. But it probably was also due to the fact that he had seen them before and more than once. Verne reports a strange incident in the restaurant of the railroad station. Fogg ordered a giblet of “native rabbit” which the proprietor highly recommended. Tasting it, he rang for the owner. Staring coldly, he said, “Is this rabbit, sir?”
    “Yes, my lord. Jungle rabbit.”
    “And this rabbit didn’t mew when he was killed?”
    The owner protested at length.
    Fogg said, “Remember this. Cats were once considered to be sacred in India. That was a good time.”
    “For the cats, my lord?”
    “Perhaps for the travelers as well.”
    By which we know that Fogg was not altogether without a certain dry wit. But by this curious conversation Fogg had determined that the proprietor was an Eridanean and that he had seen nothing suspicious to report. There had been no doubt in Fogg’s mind, or in his tongue, that the animal was what it was claimed to be. If the owner had said, “For the rabbits, my lord?” instead of, “For the cats, my lord?” Fogg would have known that the owner had something important to impart.
    Fogg’s own final statement signified that he had nothing else to say and that all was well as far as he knew.
    This was not the first time this had occurred. When Fogg was a new member of the Reform Club, a waiter had brought a rabbit instead of the beef he always had for dinner. During the course of the conversation—kept subdued because he did not wish the waiter to get fired—Mr. Fogg had received instructions. Stuart had not been able to deliver a message via the cards because of urgent business elsewhere. The same mix-up with rabbits had taken place twice more but at widely separated intervals of time. After all, if rabbit was mistakenly brought to him too often, some Capellean might get suspicious.
    It was not too long after the restaurant incident that another and unfortunate incident occurred. Passepartout, though an Eridanean, was also human. He allowed his curiosity to lead him into the splendidly pagan pagoda of Malabar Hill. He was unaware that Christians were forbidden to enter this holy place. Not only the Brahmin but the British law prohibited this desecration. Passepartout was forced to knock down several priests while they were beating