The World Fair in Paris was the place to be in 1889. People from all over the world were traveling to France that year. "All the more reason I won't be going," Phileas Fogg had huffed under the silver moustache when his two eldest sons Charles and Raz, began campaigning for their father to take them. The facial affectation had been added, drooping down to a point to touch his long-loved sweeping pointed sideburns. A retired country gentleman now, nearing seventy, Fogg didn't travel much and didn't like crowds in any case. These days, Phileas put most of his interest and energy into Shillingworth Magna's stables. He had been attempting to gain top quality breeding stock, which took up most of his time.

It was a letter from Jules Verne inviting his old friend to attend with his family that had finally made the difference. Jules was inviting them to stay at his home and visit the equestrian exhibits, which he said, using profuse praise in his letter, were beyond anything Phileas would ever have a chance to see in one place again. Phileas was tempted now, more than tempted.

"It would be good to see Jules and Honorine again," Melody said as she tatted in the parlor while he read the letter aloud. "I don't think we have seen them in, oh, at least five years." With that gentle reminder of his lapse in keeping up with his old friend, Fogg gave in; and the boys were thrilled!

The Foggs arrived in Paris toward the end of the fair. On their first day, the Vernes and Foggs scattered about the fairgrounds heading for their particular interests. Honorine took Melody for lunch at Mr. Eiffel's Tower, the boys headed off with Jules's son, Michael, and Verne led Phileas to the horses.

Phileas had to admit, Jules had been right. The equestrian exhibits were spectacular. There were Andalusian horses from Spain, Frederiksberg horses from Denmark, Friesians from the Netherlands, Hanoverians from Saxony, and many others too numerous to name. And every exhibit had information on breeders for buyers. Fogg found himself very much enjoying himself, despite his earlier disinterest. But the horses that struck Phileas most were the Arabians brought in for exhibition. They were magnificent!

"The finest, purest horses in the world," Phileas had said to Jules as they stood by admiring the animals. Jules smiled in amusement as his friend looked at the Arab horses, almost worshipfully. "I have been looking at a pair for my stables owned by a man in Surrey," Phileas said, "but these are far and away better-quality animals."

"Then you might speak to the agent," Verne said helpfully. "I understand the owner controls the camel trade in Arabia. He is also supposed to be the heir of a centuries-old family of horse breeders."

"Truly?" Phileas said. He didn't wait more than a minute to ask for a meeting with the man. He asked one of the Arab's stablemen where the agent could be found. After asking about, the stableman told Fogg that Mr. Ras Rasmussen had gone to see the Wild West Show.

"Buffalo Bill's show," Jules added smiling. "It has been one of the fair's most popular events."

"And how many times have you been to it?" Phileas teased his friend. Jules had always been fascinated with America's frontier. He could still remember the times Jules had visited America with him aboard the Aurora. Lord, I do miss that beautiful lady. It had been years since I last saw her, being moved into a government warehouse. Yet, I still miss her.

Jules chuckled good-naturedly at the ribbing. "A few times." He looked at his watch. "Come on, the next show will be in ten minutes, we could make it and then look for Mr. Rasmussen afterwards."

Often enough to know the show's schedule. Phileas stifled a chuckle, but didn't comment aloud. "Lead the way."

They reached the exhibition tent where the show was held. It was just getting started. Phileas found Bill Cody's narration of the events a bit over dramatized, but the show was not unlikable. The Indians rode about on their small Mustangs, doing tricks and pretending to chase a stagecoach on its way to Deadwood, via Paris. The American Cavalry came to the rescue, chasing the Indians away in proper storybook fashion. A tiny lady rode into the arena next and did a shooting exhibition. She was a crack shot, shooting holes through playing cards and shooting the end off of a cigarette. Rebecca should be seeing this. I should bring her tomorrow. More American reenactments followed.

At the end of the show, Phileas and Jules stood and headed for the only Arab they had seen watching the show. He had been sitting on the far side of the arena. The man was moving into the backstage area. Refusing to lose the object of his search, Phileas followed as quickly as he could. Inside, he tracked the Arab, heading for the far end of the massive storage space, where partitions were set up.

Jules reluctantly followed him. "Phileas, we really aren't supposed to be in here."

"The fair ends on Friday, Jules," Phileas said. "The longer I wait to speak to the man, the greater the chance I will miss him. Come now, think of what he could tell us about his country's horses. I'm sure you could write another adventure book just on that."

Jules declined to comment. He had recently presided over the under-purchased A Family without a Name and the still unknown success of Purchase of the North Pole. The only thoughts to his full brain at present were for the young lady, Miss Bly, who was attempting to outdo his Around the World in 80 Days trip. She had come to visit him while in France. She had gone over her travel plan with him during the visit, the same track he had used in 80 Days. Since then, he tracked her trip nearly mile by mile.

He knew Phileas was tracking it, too. Verne had written 80 Days as a fiction with a heavily fictionalized Fogg and Passepartout. They had both loved the book, but in public, refused to comment on the details. Their trip around the world that had taken place in '68, which Jules had joined them on. Rebecca's rescue from trouble in India had been a scary precarious thing, never intended to require a trip around the world to bring her home. As such, that Secret Service related trip was not for public discussion.

The great backstage tent partitions at the far side held the stagecoach and several other vehicles. The Arab's name was called by another. Mr. Rasmussen greeted the man and followed him behind a partition farther down the line.

Phileas hesitated. "It seems Mr. Rasmussen has a previous appointment," Phileas's voice dripped disappointment. "I suppose we will have to wait another time." He turned slowly, intending to leave the tents. On the way, another man, a dusty cowboy, passed them. He looked three sheets to the wind and working on a fourth. Phileas followed the cowboy's progress to the same area the Arab had gone. I so don't want to give up this opportunity. The chance to purchase those horses is too important. Perhaps, perhaps I could go back and at least request an appointment.

Before Phileas could decide to leave or stay, the tiny markswoman, Annie Oakley, stepped up and asked them if they were lost. The two older gentlemen greeted her kindly and introduced themselves when she asked their names. The little dark-haired woman with a profusion of marksmanship medals on her dress exclaimed excitedly, gushing at meeting them. Apparently, she had read some of Jules's books. Her eyes went wide and immediately began a conversation with Jules, an exercise in mutual praise.

She also exclaimed on Phileas. "I didn't know there was a real Phileas Fogg!" She said, startled at the revelation. "How wonderful! Mr. Cody would love to meet you," she said, and went back to conversing with Jules about his other books.

Phileas stood by politely, bored with it, yet didn't see fit to deprive his friend of an avid admirer. Instead, he drifted away, back toward the partition that separated him from the Arab and the cowboy as they conducted their meeting. Dare I use my fictional persona to some advantage here? He considered it. For a chance at buying a few of those fine Arabians, I would willingly dare much.

Voices drifted from the meeting place into the outer tent. As usual, for Americans, they were speaking loudly. One of the voices Phileas heard was the unmistakable clear tenor of the show master, Bill Cody. He set himself, pulling at his cuffs and taking up his cane before pushing the tent flap aside. "Mr. Cody, Miss Oakley said you and I… Oh, hello gentleman, am I intruding?" He said it as innocently as he could, surveying the faces in the small office.

"Sir," Mr. Cody said, and stood to greet him. "Annie sent you to speak with me?"

"Not exactly, no," Phileas said, not wanting to misrepresent the lady's comment. "Miss Oakley said you would be interested in meeting me. Phileas Fogg of England, sir," he said introducing himself as he took the American's hand.

The announcement of his name had the desired effect. All the men in the room stood to greet him, exclaiming on his supposed exploits in Verne's book. Phileas accepted their comments gracefully, answering rapid-fire questions. The drunken cowboy had apparently read the book, too, and was wisely suspicious of the details. "You really did what was in the book?" The man, Frank Hopkins, said.

Phileas smiled. "Some of what was written took poetic license. Actually, a good portion of it. My wife is English, and we were married before that trip took place. There was no rescue of a fair lady from a suttee," he lied, thinking of how he had found his cousin, drugged and about to be added to a funeral pyre to dispose of her. "And my supposed run from English law was an embellishment, as well. Nonetheless, the fact that the trip took eighty days is true."

"Writers… God love them," Cody said, laughing at his admission. "There are plenty of dime novels about me around. I can tell you; they too are more fiction than fact. But life isn't always the stuff of romance and adventure. Speaking of that, I understand that Miss Nellie Bly is on her way to outdo you," speaking of the American reporter.

"And she may indeed," Phileas added. "Travel across the world is much faster now than when I made my trip. I wish Miss Bly every luck and a safe speedy journey."

"Well spoken," Cody said as he offered Phileas a chair. "As you are here, we would like a man of travel's opinion of a challenge brought before us," he offered. "Frank Hopkins here has a considerable reputation in America for endurance racing. 400 races without a loss," he announced. "Right, Frank?"

Hopkins gave a nod as he settled back in his chair.

"But our friend from Arabia, Mr. Rasmussen," Cody said, indicating the Arab, "wants to put him to a test outside America. He was just offering Frank an invitation to a yearly race in his country. It's a 3000-mile race through the deserts of Syria and Iraq run for centuries by the Arabs and the best Arabian horses." Mr. Rasmussen then added to that, explaining the history and the entry fee required to be part of it.

"Most interesting," Phileas said of it. "I have never heard of this race, but there is no reason that I would have. I breed horses rather than race them and have rarely been to that part of the world. Actually, I have been wanting to speak to you, Mr. Rasmussen, about your fine horses."

"And I was planning to respectfully decline the invitation," Hopkins said, cutting in on Phileas, in a tone not as respectful as his words. Having had a look at the fellow as he entered the tent and through the conversation here, Fogg seriously doubted that the dusty cowboy had two pennies to his name, much less the stated entry fee. The bluster was, in his opinion, a cover to avoid admitting he couldn't afford it.

"We suspected you might," Frank, Cody said. He and the other American cowboy who had not entered the conversation shared a look. "This is more than just another race, Frank," he said. "This is a challenge to America and American horses."

"Horses that Americans aren't much interested in," Frank commented. His eyes narrowed, "…nor are you." That was a direct jab. Phileas didn't know for what.

Cody supplied the answer. "My refusal to endorse Chief Eagle Horn in his bid to save the wild Mustangs from extermination is a private matter and a business decision." He said it, frowning, and glancing at Phileas, not liking the issue being brought up in front of a stranger. "The government's attitude against the Mustang isn't mine. Think about it, Frank; a win of this kind might get enough publicity to change that."

"At any rate," the other man said cutting in, "the Congress of Rough Riders of the World is willing to put up your entry fee." At that, Frank Hopkins roused himself from his surly stupor. "You are?"

"That, and the trip there, with some expense money besides," he confirmed.

Frank considered that for a moment and then accepted, with a voice that was surprised and honestly grateful. Phileas felt vindicated in his thoughts on the man's finances. A moment later, Mr. Rasmussen, made his exit, inviting Phileas to go with him to discuss his top-quality Arabian stock. They picked Verne up on the way out, but Jules declined to go with them, leaving Phileas free to handle the business at his leisure.

"As you have noted, these are the finest horses in the world," Rasmussen said as they reentered the equestrian exhibits. "They are strong and can withstand the hardships of the great desert far better than the thoroughbreds of Europe. The Sheik of Sheiks, whom I am servant to, has bred them for centuries. And these are not his best. The Sheik of Sheiks would not allow his best animals to be brought to Europe. They are too precious to him."

Phileas nodded, understanding the truth of the man's boast. What he didn't understand was the Arab's invitation to the American for a race traditionally run only by Arabs.

Just then, Frank Hopkins rode by on his American Mustang. The cowboy tipped his hat to them when they acknowledged him and moved on. Phileas smiled. "A showy paint pony, smaller even than your Arabians, which are smaller than the average European horse. A hardy little animal surely, but not the quality of an Arabian. And yet, you invited that pony to be part of your great race?" Phileas watched as the American and his horse moved out of sight. "The Mustang is not a bad looking animal. I know it to be a wild breed, not considered at all the thing by most professional horsemen."

Rasmussen smiled back at him. He then explained about horses and old bloodlines. Bloodlines that had found their way to America with the Spanish Conquistadors and would be returning to their Arabian Desert origins in the guise of the paint Mustang, Hidalgo. "They are indeed small hardy animals, bred back to their original condition through years of living free and wild on America's western deserts and plains. They have a strong hard bone structure for strength, like our horses. If any animal other than a native Arabian were to win the great race, the American Mustang will be that horse." That coming from a man who knew his native horses and land. Phileas couldn't be more impressed.

For the next few days, the mustang and its entry into the Arab race intrigued Phileas. He spent a lot of time asking around about the horse and its rider. Bill Cody verified at least one race that Hopkins had won. It had been the longest race ever held in America, from Galveston, Texas to Vermont. "Hopkins was the winner and one of only three entries to finish," he said. "The horse that won it was also a Mustang. I invited him to join my show because of that win. The man knows horses and knows how to win endurance races. I have no doubts at all that he will make a good showing in the race in Arabia."

A month later, Phileas was back home in England. Several months more brought the arrival of his Arabians from Mr. Rasmussen's employer. They were undoubtedly the finest animals he and the other breeders of his acquaintance had ever seen. Yes, Shillingworth Magna was in the process of going on the map for horse breeding.

Phileas Fogg came to London on business and had lunch at the Reform Club. He took a comfortable stuffed chair in its quiet library to digest. As he sat reading the Times, an officer of the club came to him. Sir Bothwell Reaves was the keeper of the club's betting book.

"Mr. Fogg," he said, bringing himself to the elder gentleman's attention. Phileas dropped his paper and gave the man his attention. "Your winnings, sir." Sir Bothwell handed Phileas two envelopes on a tray, which would contain checks on the Bank of London.

"Thank you, Sir Bothwell," Phileas said as he accepted the envelopes. "You needn't have bothered yourself. I could have picked these up from the clerk as usual."

The other man nodded in agreement. "I know sir, but I am bitten by a strong curiosity as to why you chose to bet as you did when most of the membership backed Lord Davenport so heavily. His animal was without exception the finest in England, and some would say Europe, too."

Lord Davenport's entry into the Arab race had been the main topic of discussion when Phileas had come home from France. The older horsemen and his wife were after a win to gain breeding rights with the Sheik of Sheiks, the man Ras Rasmussen served. They had even found and hired an Arab horseman familiar with the grueling race to better their chances. The betting book had given the Davenport entry good odds to win, and most had bet accordingly. But Phileas had quietly bet against him, where the odds were higher.

Phileas gave the younger man a smile and answered the question. "Lord Davenport's livestock are indeed quite exceptional, but I learned of another entry in the race that was considered a better contender. Did your information from His Lordship's loss include the actual winner of the race, or just the fact that he lost?"

"Just his defeat, I'm afraid. The Arab that won the race was not named," Sir Bothwell said. "Undoubtedly a fine Arab horseman on a native Arabian."

"Indeed," Phileas said. An amused smile creeping across his face. Lord Davenport was as good chap, but no Englishman cared to be trounced by an American. He would not have admitted to it if he didn't have to. As such, Davenport had allowed everyone to think as they wished. I suppose that is to be expected.

Phileas bid the officer a good day and resumed his reading. He didn't try to explain the rest of what he knew of the Arab race to Reaves. Davenport could keep his secret if he wanted to. He, however, had been getting direct reports on the long race through the Sheik of Sheiks himself. He knew how that little known race had gone and how well Hopkins and his mustang had done.

Phileas smiled down at the envelopes in his hands. One contained his winnings involving Miss Bly's trip around the world. She had completed it in seventy-two days, just as he had calculated. The other was for his bet against Lord Davenport. Between the two, his rather pricey purchase of six Arabians from the Sheik of Sheiks should be fully reimbursed. Actually, if I calculated right, the two will slightly exceed what I supposedly won in Jules Verne's version of my trip around the world. But not what had been in the pot when I won the Aurora. That was by far my largest bet.

Pocketing the envelopes, he settled down happily to finish his paper.

The End.