Free What a Trip! by Tony Abbott

goal!”
    The General Grant sure did its part, rolling swiftly over the waves. The ship, by the way, was a large paddle-wheel steamer but was also rigged with three masts and lots of sails. It was definitely the kind of boat to make it over lots and lots of ocean.
    One thing I find cool is how authors can make days pass with just a few words on the page. To pass the time, I snuggled in a deck chair and did some reading. Within two or three pages, it was already November 23, our ninth day out from Yokohama. We all happened to be on deck when Mr. Fogg informed us that we were exactly halfway around the world.
    â€œBut we’ve already used up more than half of our eighty days,” said Frankie, showing me her watch. Over forty minutes had ticked by since we had left the library. “Does this mean we’re behind schedule?”
    The man shook his head slightly. “The traveling will be straighter and swifter from here on. Across the ocean, straight across America, then a steamer to Liverpool, and a train to London. It’s quite quick from here on to the joyful conclusion of our journey.”
    â€œThe joyful conclusion,” said Aouda. But when she looked at the coolness of Mr. Fogg, I saw in her amazing eyes something not so joyful at all. She was sad.
    Me, too, sort of. I really liked Aouda.
    Meanwhile, somebody I didn’t like—Detective Fix—hadn’t given up his evil quest to arrest Mr. Fogg.
    â€œYes, yes, I know you don’t like me,” Fix said, when Passepartout sneered at him one morning. “I still believe Mr. Fogg to be a bank robber, but, for whatever reason, he seems intent on getting back to London. Fine. I will help all I can to ensure he gets to London.”
    â€œWhy would you help?” asked Frankie.
    â€œI will help him,” Fix said, “because it is only when we get to England that we’ll know whether he is a gentleman, or a terrible robber. Are we friends, then?”
    â€œFriends?” said Passepartout. “Never! But allies, perhaps. At the least sign that you intend to slow us down, however, I will knock you to the ground.”
    Fix twisted his mustache. “Fair enough.”
    Ten days later, on December 3, the General Grant entered the bay of San Francisco.
    â€œCalifornia,” I said.
    Frankie and I looked at each other. We grinned.
    â€œYou know that Palmdale is only a few hundred miles from here,” she said.
    â€œI know. I’m tingling. Should we scoot off and say hello to Mrs. Figglehopper and Mr. Wexler?”
    Frankie giggled. “Dude, they’re old, but not that old. This is way over a hundred years ago!”
    â€œMaybe we could visit their great-great-grandparents,” I suggested.
    Frankie looked at me. I looked at Frankie.
    We both said the same thing at the same time.
    â€œNah!”
    As Mr. Fogg zigzagged us across San Francisco from the port to the railway station, Frankie and I found that it was full of none of the big skyscrapers we remembered from a trip we took there with our families when we were in kindergarten.
    The whole city was all small wooden buildings and low brick and stone ones. Some of the main roads were paved with dirt and huge ruts dug by wagon wheels.
    One thing I did remember, though, was the hills.
    San Francisco is all steep hills and curvy roads, and we rode up and down bunches of them to get to the train station where Mr. Fogg shed another couple of pounds from his carpetbag by buying us all tickets.
    He even bought Fix a ticket.
    â€œThe guy may be as cold as a fish,” said Frankie, “but he’s polite and generous.”
    â€œI hope it doesn’t get him into trouble,” I said. “I think I’ll read some more.” I was so hooked by the story, the hours passed quickly. If only Mr. Wexler and Mrs. Figglehopper could see me whiz through a book like that.
    The train left in a huff of steam at six o’clock in the evening. It rumbled