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Fogg and his partners had just resumed whist, when a violent whistling was heard, and the train stopped. Passepartout put his head out of the door, but saw nothing to cause the delay, no station was in view. Aouda and Fix feared that Mr. Fogg might take it into his head to get out, but that gentleman contented himself with saying to his servant, ‘See what is the matter.’ Passepartout rushed out of the car. Thirty or forty passengers had already descended, amongst them Colonel Stamp Proctor. The train had stopped before a red signal which blocked the way. The engineer and conductor were talking excitedly with a signal-man, whom the station-master at Medicine Bow, the next stopping place, had sent on before. The passengers drew around and took part in the discussion, in which Colonel Proctor, with his insolent manner, was conspicuous. Passepartout, joining the group, heard the signal-man say, ‘No! you can’t pass. The bridge at Medicine Bow is shaky, and would not bear the weight of. This was the future I’d seemingly hoped in vain would happen, so I accepted without hesitation. - Mr. Gordon’s home- Hopewell Manor, as it is called- sits on the edge of a gated collection of mansions which terrace up the hillsides, overlooking the Caribbean coast. Everyone who owns property and lives there is white, and with few exceptions, English. Just on the other side of a high wall and maybe a half-mile of beach and forest lies the village of St. John’s Burg. Everyone who lives in the village is black, and a good many of them make up the work staff at the various gated mansions nearby, including Hopewell Manor. There is a daily street market there, selling fruits, vegetables, meats, and handmade goods to the working and poor of the village and beyond. Every other homeowner around us prefers to send their staff with a list, but I always loved to make the trip myself. When I exited the iron gate, where the estate wall meets the beach, I always felt free, as if I’d re-entered.
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