Phileas Fogg hailed a boat, got into it, and soon found himself on board the Henrietta, iron-hulled, wood-built above.
He ascended to the deck, and asked for the captain, who forthwith presented himself.
He was a man of fifty, a sort of sea-wolf, with big eyes, a complexion of oxidised copper, red hair and thick neck, and a growling voice.
“The captain?” asked Mr. Fogg.
“I am the captain.”
“I am Phileas Fogg, of London.”
“And I am Andrew Speedy, of Cardiff.”
“You are going to put to sea?”
“In an hour.”
“You are bound for —”
“Bordeaux.”
“And your cargo?”
“No freight.
Going in ballast.”
“Have you any passengers?”
“No passengers.
Never have passengers.
Too much in the way.”
“Is your vessel a swift one?”
“Between eleven and twelve knots.
The Henrietta, well known.”
“Will you carry me and three other persons to Liverpool?”
“To Liverpool?
Why not to China?”
“I said Liverpool.”
“No!”
“No?”
“No.
I am setting out for Bordeaux, and shall go to Bordeaux.”
“Money is no object?”
“None.”
The captain spoke in a tone which did not admit of a reply.
“But the owners of the Henrietta —” resumed Phileas Fogg.
“The owners are myself,” replied the captain.
“The vessel belongs to me.”
“I will freight it for you.”
“No.”
“I will buy it of you.”
“No.”
Phileas Fogg did not betray the least disappointment; but the situation was a grave one.
It was not at New York as at Hong Kong, nor with the captain of the Henrietta as with the captain of the Tankadere.
Up to this time money had smoothed away every obstacle.
Now money failed.
Still, some means must be found to cross the Atlantic on a boat, unless by balloon — which would have been venturesome, besides not being capable of being put in practice.
It seemed that Phileas Fogg had an idea, for he said to the captain,
“Well, will you carry me to Bordeaux?”
“No, not if you paid me two hundred dollars.”
“I offer you two thousand.”
“Apiece?”
“Apiece.”