Six Fan Fics - 1. The Unfortunate Dismissal of James Forster

From: Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne (chapter 1)

The Unfortunate Dismissal of James Forster

James Forster was the only child of Charles and Agatha Forster. He was born in the St Bartholomew’s Hospital on the twelfth day of February, in the Year of our Lord 1844. He had been in the service of Mr Phileas Fogg, of Number Seven, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, London for nearly four years; or as Mr Fogg could no doubt have told him, three years, two hundred and seventy three days, eighteen hours, eleven minutes and thirty seven seconds. James had been a diligent man-servant to his highly eccentric lord and master, and had followed all of his mathematically precise requirements without faltering once; never once, that is, until today.

It was the morning of Wednesday, the second of October, in the Year of our Lord 1872. James Forster had ensured that Mr Fogg was awake at eight o'clock precisely. He then went into the kitchen and made a start on Mr Fogg's breakfast. The breakfast, as always, consisting of tea and toast; the tea having been purchased at great expense from the Twining Shop on the Strand, where one month’s supply of the tea cost at least thrice what Forster was paid. Mr Fogg had not once changed his breakfast in his entire life, and he certainly had no plans to ever change his breakfast.

As James Forster looked at the clock, which now showed that the time was twenty minutes past eight, he hurried to Mr Fogg's bedchamber; for the tea and toast must be served at precisely twenty three minutes past eight. It had been served at precisely twenty three minutes past eight yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. In fact, the tea and toast has been served at precisely twenty three minutes past eight ever since the first day the tea and toast was ever served to Mr Fogg. James Forster knew full well that man-servants had been dismissed in the past, not only for bringing the tea and toast late, but even for the more heinous crime of bringing the tea and toast early.

James Forster was well aware that he was able to take up his current position only when Mr Fogg had been forced to dismiss his previous man-servant, for the sheer incompetence of bringing the tea and toast at twenty two minutes and forty five seconds past eight. When asking why he was being dismissed, Mr Fogg had informed the imbecilic servant that if Mr Fogg had desired his tea and toast at twenty two minutes and forty five seconds past eight, then he could be rest assured that Mr Fogg would have requested his tea and toast at twenty two minutes and forty five seconds past eight.

James Forster returned to his own room to quickly perform his morning ablutions. He checked his appearance in the mirror, and found that his beard and moustache had re-grown to the extent that he would be required to shave; and shave he did. He was just cleaning up, when he saw the time was now thirteen minutes past nine, which gave him twenty four minutes to bring Mr Fogg his own shaving water.

James returned to the kitchen and began the process of heating some water (for he himself, as always, shaved with cold water). Another of Mr Fogg's mathematical eccentricities was that his shaving water must be brought to him at precisely eighty six degrees Fahrenheit, and at precisely thirty seven minutes past nine; this writer knows not why, Mr James Forster knows not why, and quite likely even the Great Lord in Heaven Himself knows not why. The shaving water was brought to Mr Fogg at precisely eighty six degrees Fahrenheit, and at precisely thirty seven minutes past nine yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. In fact, the shaving water had been brought to Mr Fogg at precisely eighty six degrees Fahrenheit, and at precisely thirty seven minutes past nine, ever since he was old enough to shave.

When he was first made aware of the required temperature of the shaving water, James Forster began to experiment to see what temperature the water would need to be when he left the kitchen, to ensure that it was eighty six degrees Fahrenheit when he reached Mr Fogg's room. After half a dozen trial runs, he found that if the water was at eighty nine degrees Fahrenheit when he left the kitchen, then by the time he reached Mr Fogg's bedchamber, it would have cooled down to the required eighty six degrees. James Forster knew full well that man-servants had been dismissed in the past not only for bringing the shaving water too hot, but even for the more heinous crime of bringing the shaving water too cool. One luckless man-servant had been dismissed, after he not only had had the temerity to bring Mr Fogg his shaving water at eighty five and one half degrees Fahrenheit, but he had even the sheer audacity to bring it to him at thirty seven minutes and twenty five seconds past nine.

James Forster took great care to ensure the thermometer he was using to check the water temperature was at eighty nine degrees Fahrenheit and that it was precisely thirty-four minutes and thirty seconds past nine. This would give him the precisely calculated two minutes and thirty seconds to reach Mr Fogg's bedchamber, so that he would arrive at precisely thirty-seven minutes past nine, and to allow the shaving water to cool down to the required precise eighty six degrees Fahrenheit; however, something had gone badly wrong this morning for poor James Forster.

He set the shaving water in front of Mr Fogg and was about to leave when Mr Fogg asked him, “Tell me, Forster. How long have you been my man-servant?”

“Almost four years Mr Fogg.”

“I believe you give yourself too much credit. It has only been . . .” he glanced at his watch, “. . . three years, two hundred and seventy three days, nineteen hours, forty nine minutes and thirty two seconds by my reckoning. No matter, either way you have been with me for sufficiently long enough to be able to answer me this simple question. At what temperature is my shaving water to be brought to me?”

James Forster was stunned by the question; he hoped he had done nothing that would warrant his dismissal. “Eighty six degrees Fahrenheit Mr Fogg.”

“Then why, pray tell, have you brought the shaving water to me at eighty four degrees Fahrenheit?”

James Forster was beside himself. Had Mr Phileas Fogg the authority, then James Forster believed he would surely be finding himself on his way to the Tower, and his head would soon adorn the Traitor’s Gate. “Mr Fogg, I do not know what has happened. I cannot explain it. There is no reason the shaving water should be eighty four degrees Fahrenheit.”

“Forster, your services are no longer required. You will contact the agency to arrange your replacement.”

Ten minutes later James Forster returned and advised Mr Fogg that a man-servant by the name of Jean Passepartout, a Frenchman, would be arriving sometime between eleven and eleven thirty to assume his duties; if he met with Mr Fogg's approval. James Forster also informed Mr Fogg about some of the notable families the agency had said Monsieur Passepartout had served over the years, and assured him of the glowing references received from his previous masters.

James Forster then returned to the room which had been his for the past three years, two hundred and seventy three days and however many hours, minutes and seconds it was by now. He packed away all of his clothes into his suitcases, he packed away the few nicnacs he had accumulated and began checking the drawers and cupboards in his room to ensure he had left nothing of his own behind.

As the clock in his room indicated the time was twenty two minutes past eleven on October the second, in the Year of our Lord 1872, he heard a knock on the front door and knew it to be his replacement. Mr Phileas Fogg, after all, had never had a social caller at his home, and any person who knew him, would never dare to call upon Mr Fogg so close to his departure time for the Reform Club.

James Forster proceeded downstairs and opened the door. He greeted Passepartout warmly and led him into the room where Mr Fogg had seated himself.

“The new servant,” said James Forster.

“You are a Frenchman, I believe,” asked Phileas Fogg, “and your name is John?”

“Jean, if monsieur pleases,” replied the soon to be new man-servant.

At this point James Forster slipped out and back upstairs to his room, to collect his suitcases. As he came back downstairs, he heard the front door open and close, and realised that as it was now precisely eleven thirty it must be his former master leaving for the Reform Club. Since there was nothing still keeping him here in Number Seven, Saville Row, he let himself out without a word to Passepartout. James Forster did however, silently wish Monsieur Jean Passepartout the very best of luck working for Mr Fogg.

James Forster had enjoyed his tenure with Mr Fogg, in spite of the mathematically precise way Mr Fogg existed; however, he was looking forward to working for a master who perhaps was a little more human. Unbeknownst to him, Jean Passepartout was actually looking forward to the mathematically precise way in which Mr Fogg existed.