loit of his master delighted
him above everything; he was the life and soul of the crew, and his
good spirits were infectious. He had forgotten the past vexation, and
only looked forward to the future. He kept his eye warily upon Fix,
but scarcely spoke, for the old intimacy no longer existed between
them.

It must be confessed that Fix did not understand what was going on.
The seizure of the _Henrietta_, the bribery of the crew, and Fogg's
seamanlike qualities perfectly astounded him; he did not know what to
think; for a gentleman who had begun by stealing fifty-five thousand
pounds might end by stealing a vessel, and Fix not unnaturally came to
the conclusion that the _Henrietta_ would not reach Liverpool at all,
but proceed to some port where Mr. Fogg, turned pirate, would be in
safety. The detective was sorry he had gone into the business.

All this time Captain Speedy continued to grumble and swear in his
cabin, and Passe-partout, who took him his meals, was obliged to be
very circumspect. Mr. Fogg did not seem to care whether there was a
captain on board or not.

On the 13th they passed the Banks of Newfoundland. This was a
dangerous part of the coast, particularly in winter, when fogs and
gales are frequent. On this occasion the barometer had been falling
all the preceding day, and during the night the cold became more
intense, and the wind chopped to the south-east.

This was unfortunate. Mr. Fogg furled his sails and put on full-steam;
nevertheless the speed fell off, as the vessel pitched heavily. The
wind rose, and the position of the _Henrietta_ became precarious.

Passe-partout's face darkened as the sky, and for two days he was in
mortal terror. But Mr. Fogg was a bold sailor, and kept the ship head
to sea without even reducing the steam. The _Henrietta_ rushed through
the waves and deluged her decks. Sometimes the screw was clear out of
the water, but still they kept on.

Although the wind did not increase to a tempest, it held to the
south-east, so the sails were rendered useless, and a great aid to the
screw was thus lost.

The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since Fogg's departure
from London, and half the voyage across the Atlantic had been
accomplished, and the worst was over. In the summer, success would
have been assured, but in winter the weather had them at its mercy.
Passe-partout said nothing, but consoled himself with the reflection
that the steam would not fail them, and h