for in this immense and admirable port, there is not a day when a hundred vessels do not set sail for every quarter of the globe; but the most of them were sailing vessels, and they would not suit Phileas Fogg.
This gentleman was seeming to fail in his last attempt, when he perceived, moored in front of the battery, at a cable's length at most, a merchantman, with screw, of fine outlines, whose smoke-stack, emitting clouds of smoke, indicated that she was preparing to sail.
Phileas Fogg hailed a boat, got in it, and with a few strokes of the oar, he found himself at the ladder of the Henrietta, an iron-hulled steamer, with her upper parts of wood.
The captain of the Henrietta was on board. Phileas Fogg went up on deck and asked for the captain, who presented himself immediately.
He was a man fifty years old, a sort of sea wolf, a grumbler who would not be very accommodating. His large eyes, his complexion oxydized copper, his red hair, his large chest and shoulders, indicated nothing of the appearance of a man of the world.
"The captain?" asked Mr. Fogg.
"I am he."
"I am Phileas Fogg, of London."
"And I am Andrew Speedy, of Cardiff."
"You are going to start?"
"In an hour."
"You are loaded for———?"
"Bordeaux."
"And your cargo?"
"Gravel in the hold. I have no freight. I sail in ballast."
"You have passengers?"
"No passengers. Never have passengers. A merchandise that's in the way and reasons."
"Your vessel sails swiftly?"
"Between eleven and twelve knots. The Henrietta, well known."
"Do you wish to convey me to Liverpool, myself and three persons?"
"To Liverpool? Why not to China?"
"I said Liverpool."
