What had happened was very simple. Phileas Fogg wished to go to Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there. Then Phileas Fogg had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during the thirty hours he had been on board, had so shrewdly managed with his banknotes that the sailors and stokers, who were only an occasional crew, and were not on the best terms with the captain, went over to him in a body. This was why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy; why the captain was a prisoner in his cabin; and why, in short, the Henrietta was directing her course towards Liverpool. It was very clear, to see Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor. How the adventure ended will be seen soon. Aouda was anxious, though she said nothing. As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg's maneuver simply glorious. The captain had said "between eleven and twelve knots," and the Henrietta confirmed his prediction. If, then--for there were "ifs" still--the sea did not become too violent, if the wind did not veer round to the east, if no accident happened to the boat or its machinery, the Henrietta might cross the three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool in the nine days, between the 12th and the 21st of December. It is true that, once arrived, the affair on board the Henrietta, added to that of the Bank of England, might create more difficulties for Mr. Fogg than he imagined or could desire. During the first days, they went along smoothly enough. The sea was not very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the northeast, the sails were hoisted, and the Henrietta ploughed across the waves like a real trans-Atlantic steamer. Passepartout was delighted. His master's last exploit, the consequences of which he ignored, enchanted him. Never had the crew seen so jolly and dexterous a fellow. He formed warm friendships with the sailors, and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He thought they managed the vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like heroes. His loquacious good-humor infected everyone. He had forgotten the past, its vexations and delays. He only thought of the end, so nearly accomplished. Sometimes he boiled over with impatience, as if heated by the furnaces of the Henrietta. Often, also, the worthy fellow revolved around Fix, looking at him with a keen, distrustful eye, but he did not speak to him, for their old intimacy no longer existed.