wonderfully well, and in fact she had won several prizes in pilot-boat matches.
The crew of the Tankadere was composed of the master, John Bunsby, and four men. They were of that class of hardy sailors who, in all weathers, venture out in search of vessels, and are thoroughly acquainted with these seasons. John Bunsby, a man about forty-five years, vigorous, well sunburnt, of a lively expression, of an energetic face, self-reliant, well posted in his business, would have inspired confidence in the most timorous.
Phileas Fogg and Aouda went on board. Fix was already there. They went down by steps in the rear of the schooner into a square cabin, whose walls bulged out in the form of cots, above a circular divan. In the middle, there was a table lighted by a hanging lamp. It was small, but neat.
"I regret having nothing better to offer you," said Mr. Fogg to Fix, who bowed without replying.
The detective felt somewhat humiliated by thus taking advantage of Mr. Fogg's kindnesses. "Surely," he thought, "he is a very polite rogue, but he is a rogue!"
At ten minutes after three the sails were hoisted. The English flag was flying at the gaff of the schooner. The passengers were seated on deck. Mr. Fogg and Aouda cast a last look at the wharf, in hopes of seeing Passepartout.
Fix was not without apprehension, for chance might have brought to this place the unfortunate young man whom he had so indignantly treated, and then an explanation would have taken place, from which the detective would not have got out to advantage. But the Frenchman did not show himself, and doubtless the stupefying narcotic still held him under its influence.
Finally, Master John Bunsby ordered a start, and the Tankadere, taking the wind under her brigantine, foresail, and standing jib, flew out in the sea.
