# Works of Jules Verne/Round the World in Eighty Days/Chapter 34

CHAPTER XXXIV
WHICH GIVES PASSEPARTOUT THE OPPORTUNITY OF LETTING OUT SOME ATROCIOUS, BUT PERHAPS UNPUBLISHED, WORDS
Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been shut up in the custom house in Liverpool, and was to pass the night there, awaiting his transfer to London.
At the moment of his arrest, Passepartout wished to rush upon the detective. Some policemen held him back. Aouda, frightened by the brutality of the act, and knowing nothing about it, could not understand it. Passepartout explained the situation to her. Mr. Fogg, this honest and courageous gentleman, to whom she owed her life, was arrested as a robber. The young woman protested against such an allegation, her heart rose with indigation, and tears flowed from her eyes when she saw that she could not do anything, or attempt anything to save her deliverer.
As for Fix, he had arrested the gentleman because his duty commanded him to, whether he was guilty or not. The courts would decide the question.
But then a thought came to Passepartout—the terrible thought that he was certainly the cause of all this misfortune! Indeed, why had he concealed this adventure from Mr. Fogg? When Fix had revealed both his capacity as a detective and the mission with which he was charged, why had he decided not to warn his master? The latter, informed, would without doubt have given Fix proofs of his innocence; he would have demonstrated to him his error; at any rate he would not have conveyed at his expense and on his tracks this unfortunate detective, whose first care was to arrest him the moment he set foot on the soil of the United Kingdom. Thinking of his faults and his imprudence, the poor fellow was overwhelmed with remorse. He wept, so that it was painful to look at him. He felt like blowing his brains out.
Aouda and he remained, notwithstanding the cold, under the porch of the custom house. Neither of them wished to leave the place. They wanted to see Mr. Fogg once more.
As for that gentleman, he was really ruined, and at the very moment that he was about to reach his end. This arrest would ruin him irrecoverably. Having arrived at ​Liverpool at twenty minutes before twelve, noon, on the 21st of December, he had until quarter of nine in the evening to appear at the Reform Club—that is, nine hours and five minutes, and he only needed six to reach London. At this moment, anyone entering the custom house would have found Mr. Fogg seated motionless, on a wooden bench, without anger, imperturbable. He could not have been said to be resigned, but this blow had not been able to move him, in appearance at least. Was he fostering within himself one of those secret spells of anger, terrible because they are pent up, and which break out only at the last moment with irresistible force? We do not know. But Phileas Fogg was there, calm, waiting for—what? Did he cherish some hope? Did he still believe in success, when the door of his prison was closed upon him?
However that may be, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch on the table, and watched the hands move. Not a word escaped from his lips, but his look had a rather singular fixedness.
In any event the situation was terrible, and for anyone that could read his thoughts, they ran thus:
An honest man, Phileas Fogg was ruined.
A dishonest man, he was caught.
Did he think of escaping? Did he think of looking to see whether there was a practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of flying? We would be tempted to believe so; for, once he took the tour of the room. But the door was securely locked and the windows had iron bars. He sat down again, and took from his pocket-book the diary of his journey. On the line which bore these words:
"December 21st, Saturday, Liverpool," he added:
"Eightieth day, 11:40 A. M.," and he waited.
The custom house clock struck one. Mr. Fogg observed that his watch was two hours fast by this clock.
Two hours! Admitting that he should jump aboard an express train at this moment he could still arrive in London and at the Reform Club before quarter of nine in the evening. A light frown passed over his forehead.
At thirty-three minutes after two o'clock, a noise sounded outside, a bustle from the opening of doors. The voice of Passepartout was heard, and also that of Fix.
Phileas Fogg's look brightened up a moment.
​The door opened, and he saw Aouda, Passepartout, Fix, rushing towards him.
Fix was out of breath, his hair all disordered, and he could not speak.
"Sir," he stammered, "sir—pardon—an unfortunate resemblance—robber arrested three days ago—you—free———!"
Phileas Fogg was free! He went to the detective, looked him well in the face, and, with the only rapid movement that he ever had made or ever would make in his life, he drew both his arms back, and then, with the precision of an automaton, he struck the unfortunate detective with both his fists.
"Well hit!" cried Passepartout, who, allowing himself an atrocious flow of words, quite worthy of a Frenchman, added: "Zounds! this is what might be called a fine application of English fists!"
Fix, prostrate, did not utter a word. He only got what he deserved. But Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout immediately left the custom house. They jumped into a carriage, and in a few minutes arrived at the depot. Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train ready to start for London.
It was forty minutes past two. The express had left thirty-five minutes before.
Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train. There were several locomotives of great speed with steam up; but, owing to the exigencies of the service, the special train could not leave the depot before three o'clock.
At three o'clock, Phileas Fogg, after saying a few words to the engineer about a certain reward to be won, moved on in the direction of London, in the company of the young woman and his faithful servant.
The distance which separates Liverpool from London must be accomplished in five hours and a half—a very feasible thing when the road is clear on the whole route. But there were compulsory delays, and when the gentleman arrived at the depot all the clocks in London were striking ten minutes of nine.
Phileas Fogg, after having accomplished this tour of the world, arrived five minutes behind time!
He had lost his bet.
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