What a Trip! by Tony Abbott Page B

Reverend Samuel Wilson of Marylebone Parish that there is to be a wedding at his church.”
    â€œFor tomorrow, Monday?” asked Passepartout.
    Fogg turned to Aouda. “For tomorrow, Monday.”
    â€œYes, for tomorrow, Monday!” she said.
    Passepartout leaped up. “I can’t wait!” He zoomed out of the room like a rocket.
    â€œIndeed!” said Fogg, cracking his first smile ever.
    After about a minute of Frankie and me standing there, it was clear that Fogg and Aouda didn’t really want two kids hanging around.
    â€œUm, hey, Frankie, how about we go find Pass—”
    â€œGood idea!”
    In a flash we were out and about in London.
    It actually took us a while to find Passepartout, mainly because the London streets were as twisty as Fix’s mustache, and partly because Frankie wasn’t really helping. She was trying to read the last few pages of the book to see if there were any clues about what might happen to her and me. But, no, the pages were still too blurry to make out any words.
    â€œI guess when the gates died, the story died, too,” she said. “I mean, we’re making our own story now. Which, let me tell you, is way too weird for me.”
    Finally, we saw a familiar figure racing along the street toward us.
    â€œPassepartout!” I said. “Slow down. What’s wrong?”
    But he rushed past us, shrieking, “Must hurry! Tell Mr. Fogg! Must hurry! Oh!”
    We hustled to keep up with him as he screeched around the streets. “Did you find Reverend Samuel Wilson of Marylebone Parish?” I asked him.
    â€œYes!” he huffed. “No time to explain! Must hurry!”
    We raced with Passepartout into Mr. Fogg’s house.
    â€œWhat is the matter?” Mr. Fogg asked when we burst into his living room.
    â€œWedding impossible for tomorrow!” Passepartout blurted out. “No weddings are performed on Sunday!”
    â€œBut today is Sunday,” said Mr. Fogg.
    â€œNo, Saturday!”
    â€œImpossible.”
    â€œNo,” cried Passepartout. “You have made a mistake of one day! We arrived twenty-four hours ahead of time. But now—there are only eleven minutes left!”
    Mr. Fogg looked at Passepartout, then Aouda, then Frankie, and me. “Just a moment,” he said calmly. “I must understand this.”
    And with a bare ten minutes left before the actual deadline, Mr. Fogg sat at a small table, took out that notebook of his, and began to jot down stuff.
    After what seemed like forever, with Passepartout leaping about yelling things like, “Nine minutes! Eight! Only seven minutes!” Mr. Fogg finally looked up at us.
    â€œI see now. The cause of the error is very simple. Without suspecting it, we have gained a complete day on our journey. How, you ask?”
    â€œWe didn’t ask!” said Frankie. “Let’s go!”
    Fogg held up his hand. “I will tell you how. As Sir Francis Cromarty reminded us, we were traveling constantly eastward, from London to Suez, India, China, Japan, the United States, then back to London.”
    â€œWe remember those places!” I said. “Now let’s go!”
    â€œWell, in journeying eastward,” he went on calmly, “we were always traveling toward the sun. The days were therefore four minutes shorter as we crossed each of the three hundred sixty degrees around the earth. Three hundred sixty multiplied by four minutes equals twenty-four hours. Thus, we gained a day.”
    Aouda brightened. “So, while you saw the sun go down eighty times, your friends in London only saw it go down seventy-nine times.”
    â€œPrecisely,” said Fogg. “And speaking of my friends, they are no doubt waiting at the Reform Club. Now, as there are one thousand, one hundred fifty-one steps from here to the Reform Club, and five minutes and thirty-two seconds before our time runs out, by my