A day later we had broken the immaculate schedule and were on the way to magnificent Iowa, rattling along in a train not unlike the one that had borne us across America going the other way. Phileas Fogg was composed, as usual, not at all ruffled, as if we were still running to his plan; Mme Aouda was staring out of the window with mildly fascinated eyes. For my part I was talking animatedly with young Harbert Brown, finding out about his incredible four years spent on Lincoln Island; I heard how he and his friends had developed the island, discovered that they could live there for a long while, make it part of the Union indeed; I heard how they had felt the influence of some mysterious being helping them along, and had eventually found out that this was in fact the infamous Captain Nemo; Harbert told then in a somewhat subdued voice how the volcano that dominated the island had erupted with enough force to tear the island apart, and they would all have perished but for the Duncan and its crew that had passed at just the right moment. I saw how the young man's eyes shone when he talked of the island and its beauty, its every facet; I saw how they filled with tears as he came to the end of his narration, and he had to blink them back.
'It sounds magnificent,' said Mme Aouda, who had also been listening to this extraordinary tale.
'It was,' said Harbert, but could say no more. 'Iowa is nearly that. You'll see. But your journey must have been incredible. Your round-the-world trip, I mean.'
'Oh, it was,' I replied. And I launched into a detailed account of the voyage, to which Aouda and occasionally Phileas Fogg contributed. I had more to tell than the others, however, because it was me to whom all of the misfortunes and adventures seemed to have happened. I was quite proud to tell of how I had rescued Mme Aouda from the grip of those who would have burned her alive with her dead husband; Harbert listened with a deep interest, and when I had finished my story he grinned.
'It must have been incredible,' he breathed. 'I had read a little about it in the New Lincoln Herald, but to hear it from...' He seemed a little star-struck – unusual considering his own connexions, but pleasing nevertheless: our fame had reached places I had not even heard of.
There was a lull then in the conversation; Phileas Fogg asked me to check my watch, and I told him that we were exactly on schedule. We should soon be in Iowa, and near to the huge estate that Harbert had briefly described to us, bought by the Lincoln Islanders as a replacement for their lost home of four years; and we would be soon to meet his friends, whose names were now rather well-known throughout the Old and New Worlds.
We were met at the station by a tall, slightly rugged gentleman with a brown friendly face and sparkling eyes. He greeted Harbert; then he turned to us, his expression curious.
'Ah, these are friends of mine,' Harbert said, seeming then to remember that he had only just met us. 'They are the famous around-the-world travellers – Phileas and Aouda Fogg, and Jean Passepartout.'
'Ah! Really?' cried the man in surprise. 'Delighted to meet you –' and he thrust out his hand, shaking ours with such vigour that I thought mine might drop off. 'Yes, a friend of mine, Gideon Spilett, did quite a marvellous feature about your journey.'
'I've mentioned that,' said Harbert, smiling. 'This is my adoptive father Pencroff,' he added, seeing that we had not been introduced.
'A pleasure,' we all said.
'I met these three in New York,' Harbert explained to his father. 'I have invited them back to New Lincoln, if that is all right.'
'It's perfectly all right,' beamed Pencroff. 'Well, shall we be off? I have a trap waiting. There will be room for everyone, I'm sure of it.'
