On the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg's bedchamber, both beating the same second 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 program 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 completely 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. 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 idealized. There was no study, nor were there books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform Club 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 peaceful habits.

Having examined the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile spread over 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 3

In Which a Conversation Takes Place Which Seems Likely to Cost Phileas Fogg Dearly

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 opened upon a tasteful garden, where the trees were already gilded with an autumn coloring; 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 walked towards the large hall, a sumptuous apartment adorned with lavishly framed paintings. A porter handed him an uncut Times, which he proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed familiarity with this delicate operation. The reading of this paper absorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, while the Standard, his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour. Dinner passed as breakfast had done, and Mr. Fogg reappeared 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 Club 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 persons, 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.

Jules Verne
French Authors
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