"On the 11th, at seven o'clock in the evening. We have then four days before us. Four days, that is ninety-six hours, and with an average of eight knots an hour, if we have good luck, if the wind keeps to the southeast, if the sea is calm, we can make the eight hundred miles which separate us from Shanghai."
"And you can leave———"
"In an hour, time enough to buy my provisions and hoist sail."
"It is a bargain—you are the master of the boat?"
"Yes, John Bunsby, master of the Tankadere."
"Do you wish some earnest money?"
"If it does not inconvenience your honor."
"Here are two hundred pounds on account—Sir," added Phileas Fogg turning towards Fix, "if you wish to take advantage———"
"Sir," answered Fix resolutely, "I was going to ask this favor of you."
"Well. In half an hour we will be on board."
"But this poor fellow—" said Aouda, whom Passepartout's disappearance worried very much.
"I am going to do all I can to find him," replied Phileas Fogg.
And while Fix, nervous, feverish, angry, repaired to the pilot boat, the two others went to the police station at Hong Kong. Phileas Fogg gave there Passepartout's description, and left a sufficient sum to find him. The same formality was carried out at the French consular agent's, and the palanquin having stopped at the hotel where the baggage had been taken took the travelers back to the outer pier.
Three o'clock struck. The pilot-boat, No. 43, her crew on board, and her provisions stowed away, was ready to set sail. She was a charming little schooner of twenty tons—this Tankadere—with a sharp cut-water, very graceful shape, and long water lines. She might have been called a racing yacht. Her shining copper sheathing, her galvanized iron work, her deck white as ivory, showed that Master John Bunsby knew how to keep her in good condition. Her two masts leaned a little to the rear. She carried brigantine-foresail, storm-jib, and standing-jib, and could rig up splendidly for a rear wind. She ought to sail
