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<h1>GODFREY MORGAN</h1>
<h2>A CALIFORNIAN MYSTERY</h2>
<p class="tbrk"> </p>
<h3>BY</h3>
<h2>JULES VERNE</h2>
<p class="tbrk"> </p>
<hr class="smler" />
<p class="tbrk"> </p>
<h3>ILLUSTRATED</h3>
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<hr class="smler" />
<p class="tbrk"> </p>
<p class="center"><i>AUTHOR'S COPYRIGHT EDITION</i></p>
<p class="tbrk"> </p>
<p class="center">LONDON:<br/>SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY,<br/><i>Limited</i>.</p>
<hr />
<div class="center"><SPAN name="going" id="going"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/ill001.jpg" width-obs='487' height-obs='700' alt="Going Going" /></div>
<h4>"Going! Going!" <SPAN href="#Page_15"><i>page 15</i></SPAN></h4>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>
<div class="index">
<ul>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which the reader has the opportunity of buying an Island in the Pacific Ocean</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>How William W. Kolderup, of San Francisco, was at loggerheads with J. R. Taskinar, of Stockton</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>The conversation of Phina Hollaney and Godfrey Morgan, with a piano accompaniment</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which T. Artelett, otherwise Tartlet, is duly introduced to the reader</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which they prepare to go, and at the end of which they go for good</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which the reader makes the acquaintance of a new personage</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</SPAN></span><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which it will be seen that William W. Kolderup was probably right in insuring his ship</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>Which leads Godfrey to bitter reflections on the mania for travelling</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which it is shown that Crusoes do not have everything as they wish</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which Godfrey does what any other shipwrecked man would have done under the circumstances</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which the question of lodging is solved as well as it could be</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>Which ends with a thunder-bolt</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which Godfrey again sees a slight smoke over another part of the Island</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>Wherein Godfrey finds some wreckage, to which he and his companion give a hearty welcome</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</SPAN></span><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which there happens what happens at least once in the life of every Crusoe, real or imaginary</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which something happens which cannot fail to surprise the reader</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which Professor Tartlet's gun really does marvels</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>Which treats of the moral and physical education of a simple native of the Pacific</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which the situation already gravely compromised becomes more and more complicated</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>In which Tartlet reiterates in every key that he would rather be off</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>Which ends with quite a surprising reflection by the negro Carefinotu</li>
<li><h3><SPAN href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII.</SPAN></h3></li>
<li>Which concludes by explaining what up to now had appeared inexplicable</li>
</ul></div>
<hr class="smler" />
<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
<div class="index">
<ul>
<li><SPAN href="#going">"Going! Going!"</SPAN>—<i>Frontispiece</i></li>
<li><SPAN href="#mist">Nothing appeared through the mist.</SPAN></li>
<li><SPAN href="#island">"An Island!"</SPAN></li>
<li><SPAN href="#smoke">There was the column of smoke.</SPAN></li>
<li><SPAN href="#canoe">"A Canoe!"</SPAN></li>
<li><SPAN href="#score">Of lions and tigers quite a score.</SPAN></li>
</ul></div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</SPAN></span></p>
<h1>GODFREY MORGAN.</h1>
<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></SPAN>CHAPTER I.</h2>
<h3>IN WHICH THE READER HAS THE OPPORTUNITY OF BUYING AN ISLAND IN THE PACIFIC OCEAN.</h3>
<p>"An island to sell, for cash, to the highest bidder!" said Dean Felporg,
the auctioneer, standing behind his rostrum in the room where the
conditions of the singular sale were being noisily discussed.</p>
<p>"Island for sale! island for sale!" repeated in shrill tones again and
again Gingrass, the crier, who was threading his way in and out of the
excited crowd closely packed inside the largest saloon in the auction
mart at No. 10, Sacramento Street.</p>
<p>The crowd consisted not only of a goodly number of Americans from the
States of Utah, Oregon, and California, but also of a few Frenchmen, who
form quite a sixth of the population.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Mexicans were there enveloped in their sarapes; Chinamen in their
large-sleeved tunics, pointed shoes, and conical hats; one or two
Kanucks from the coast; and even a sprinkling of Black Feet,
Grosventres, or Flatheads, from the banks of the Trinity river.</p>
<p>The scene is in San Francisco, the capital of California, but not at the
period when the placer-mining fever was raging—from 1849 to 1852. San
Francisco was no longer what it had been then, a caravanserai, a
terminus, an <i>inn</i>, where for a night there slept the busy men who were
hastening to the gold-fields west of the Sierra Nevada. At the end of
some twenty years the old unknown Yerba-Buena had given place to a town
unique of its kind, peopled by 100,000 inhabitants, built under the
shelter of a couple of hills, away from the shore, but stretching off to
the farthest heights in the background—a city in short which has
dethroned Lima, Santiago, Valparaiso, and every other rival, and which
the Americans have made the queen of the Pacific, the "glory of the
western coast!"</p>
<p>It was the 15th of May, and the weather was still cold. In California,
subject as it is to the direct action of the polar currents, the first
weeks of this month are somewhat similar to the last weeks of March in
Central Europe. But the cold was hardly noticeable in the thick of the
auction crowd. The bell with its incessant clangour had<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</SPAN></span> brought
together an enormous throng, and quite a summer temperature caused the
drops of perspiration to glisten on the foreheads of the spectators
which the cold outside would have soon solidified.</p>
<p>Do not imagine that all these folks had come to the auction-room with
the intention of buying. I might say that all of them had but come to
see. Who was going to be mad enough, even if he were rich enough, to
purchase an isle of the Pacific, which the government had in some
eccentric moment decided to sell? Would the reserve price ever be
reached? Could anybody be found to work up the bidding? If not, it would
scarcely be the fault of the public crier, who tried his best to tempt
buyers by his shoutings and gestures, and the flowery metaphors of his
harangue. People laughed at him, but they did not seem much influenced
by him.</p>
<p>"An island! an isle to sell!" repeated Gingrass.</p>
<p>"But not to buy!" answered an Irishman, whose pocket did not hold enough
to pay for a single pebble.</p>
<p>"An island which at the valuation will not fetch six dollars an acre!"
said the auctioneer.</p>
<p>"And which won't pay an eighth per cent.!" replied a big farmer, who was
well acquainted with agricultural speculations.</p>
<p>"An isle which measures quite sixty-four miles round<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</SPAN></span> and has an area of
two hundred and twenty-five thousand acres!"</p>
<p>"Is it solid on its foundation?" asked a Mexican, an old customer at the
liquor-bars, whose personal solidity seemed rather doubtful at the
moment.</p>
<p>"An isle with forests still virgin!" repeated the crier, "with prairies,
hills, watercourses—"</p>
<p>"Warranted?" asked a Frenchman, who seemed rather inclined to nibble.</p>
<p>"Yes! warranted!" added Felporg, much too old at his trade to be moved
by the chaff of the public.</p>
<p>"For two years?"</p>
<p>"To the end of the world!"</p>
<p>"Beyond that?"</p>
<p>"A freehold island!" repeated the crier, "an island without a single
noxious animal, no wild beasts, no reptiles!—"</p>
<p>"No birds?" added a wag.</p>
<p>"No insects?" inquired another.</p>
<p>"An island for the highest bidder!" said Dean Felporg, beginning again.
"Come, gentlemen, come! Have a little courage in your pockets! Who wants
an island in perfect state of repair, never been used, an island in the
Pacific, that ocean of oceans? The valuation is a mere nothing! It is
put at eleven hundred thousand dollars, is there any<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</SPAN></span> one will bid? Who
speaks first? You, sir?—you, over there nodding your head like a
porcelain mandarin? Here is an island! a really good island! Who says an
island?"</p>
<p>"Pass it round!" said a voice as if they were dealing with a picture or
a vase.</p>
<p>And the room shouted with laughter, but not a half-dollar was bid.</p>
<p>However, if the lot could not be passed round, the map of the island was
at the public disposal. The whereabouts of the portion of the globe
under consideration could be accurately ascertained. There was neither
surprise nor disappointment to be feared in that respect. Situation,
orientation, outline, altitudes, levels, hydrography, climatology, lines
of communication, all these were easily to be verified in advance.
People were not buying a pig in a poke, and most undoubtedly there could
be no mistake as to the nature of the goods on sale. Moreover, the
innumerable journals of the United States, especially those of
California, with their dailies, bi-weeklies, weeklies, bi-monthlies,
monthlies, their reviews, magazines, bulletins, &c., had been for
several months directing constant attention to the island whose sale by
auction had been authorized by Act of Congress.</p>
<p>The island was Spencer Island, which lies in the <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</SPAN></span>west-south-west of the
Bay of San Francisco, about 460 miles from the Californian coast, in 32°
15' north latitude, and 145° 18' west longitude, reckoning from
Greenwich. It would be impossible to imagine a more isolated position,
quite out of the way of all maritime or commercial traffic, although
Spencer Island was relatively, not very far off, and situated
practically in American waters. But thereabouts the regular currents
diverging to the north and south have formed a kind of lake of calms,
which is sometimes known as the "Whirlpool of Fleurieu."</p>
<p>It is in the centre of this enormous eddy, which has hardly an
appreciable movement, that Spencer Island is situated. And so it is
sighted by very few ships. The main routes of the Pacific, which join
the new to the old continent, and lead away to China or Japan, run in a
more southerly direction. Sailing-vessels would meet with endless calms
in the Whirlpool of Fleurieu; and steamers, which always take the
shortest road, would gain no advantage by crossing it. Hence ships of
neither class know anything of Spencer Island, which rises above the
waters like the isolated summit of one of the submarine mountains of the
Pacific. Truly, for a man wishing to flee from the noise of the world,
seeking quiet in solitude, what could be better than this island, lost
within a few hundred miles of the coast? For a voluntary Robinson
Crusoe, it would<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</SPAN></span> be the very ideal of its kind! Only of course he must
pay for it.</p>
<p>And now, why did the United States desire to part with the island? Was
it for some whim? No! A great nation cannot act on caprice in any
matter, however simple. The truth was this: situated as it was, Spencer
Island had for a long time been known as a station perfectly useless.
There could be no practical result from settling there. In a military
point of view it was of no importance, for it only commanded an
absolutely deserted portion of the Pacific. In a commercial point of
view there was a similar want of importance, for the products would not
pay the freight either inwards or outwards. For a criminal colony it was
too far from the coast. And to occupy it in any way, would be a very
expensive undertaking. So it had remained deserted from time immemorial,
and Congress, composed of "eminently practical" men, had resolved to put
it up for sale—on one condition only, and that was, that its purchaser
should be a free American citizen. There was no intention of giving away
the island for nothing, and so the reserve price had been fixed at
$1,100,000. This amount for a financial society dealing with such
matters was a mere bagatelle, if the transaction could offer any
advantages; but as we need hardly repeat, it offered none, and competent
men<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</SPAN></span> attached no more value to this detached portion of the United
States, than to one of the islands lost beneath the glaciers of the
Pole.</p>
<p>In one sense, however, the amount was considerable. A man must be rich
to pay for this hobby, for in any case it would not return him a
halfpenny per cent. He would even have to be immensely rich for the
transaction was to be a "cash" one, and even in the United States it is
as yet rare to find citizens with $1,100,000 in their pockets, who would
care to throw them into the water without hope of return.</p>
<p>And Congress had decided not to sell the island under the price. Eleven
hundred thousand dollars, not a cent less, or Spencer Island would
remain the property of the Union.</p>
<p>It was hardly likely that any one would be mad enough to buy it on the
terms.</p>
<p>Besides, it was expressly reserved that the proprietor, if one offered,
should not become king of Spencer Island, but president of a republic.
He would gain no right to have subjects, but only fellow-citizens, who
could elect him for a fixed time, and would be free from re-electing him
indefinitely. Under any circumstances he was forbidden to play at
monarchy. The Union could never tolerate the foundation of a kingdom, no
matter how small, in American waters.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>This reservation was enough to keep off many an ambitious millionaire,
many an aged nabob, who might like to compete with the kings of the
Sandwich, the Marquesas, and the other archipelagoes of the Pacific.</p>
<p>In short, for one reason or other, nobody presented himself. Time was
getting on, the crier was out of breath in his efforts to secure a
buyer, the auctioneer orated without obtaining a single specimen of
those nods which his estimable fraternity are so quick to discover; and
the reserve price was not even mentioned.</p>
<p>However, if the hammer was not wearied with oscillating above the
rostrum, the crowd was not wearied with waiting around it. The joking
continued to increase, and the chaff never ceased for a moment. One
individual offered two dollars for the island, costs included. Another
said that a man ought to be paid that for taking it.</p>
<p>And all the time the crier was heard with,—</p>
<p>"An island to sell! an island for sale!"</p>
<p>And there was no one to buy it.</p>
<p>"Will you guarantee that there are flats there?" said Stumpy, the grocer
of Merchant Street, alluding to the deposits so famous in alluvial
gold-mining.</p>
<p>"No," answered the auctioneer, "but it is not impossible that there are,
and the State abandons all its rights over the gold lands."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Haven't you got a volcano?" asked Oakhurst, the bar-keeper of
Montgomery Street.</p>
<p>"No volcanoes," replied Dean Felporg, "if there were, we could not sell
at this price!"</p>
<p>An immense shout of laughter followed.</p>
<p>"An island to sell! an island for sale!" yelled Gingrass, whose lungs
tired themselves out to no purpose.</p>
<p>"Only a dollar! only a half-dollar! only a cent above the reserve!" said
the auctioneer for the last time, "and I will knock it down! Once!
Twice!"</p>
<p>Perfect silence.</p>
<p>"If nobody bids we must put the lot back! Once! Twice!</p>
<p>"Twelve hundred thousand dollars!"</p>
<p>The four words rang through the room like four shots from a revolver.</p>
<p>The crowd, suddenly speechless, turned towards the bold man who had
dared to bid.</p>
<p>It was William W. Kolderup, of San Francisco.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</SPAN></span></p>
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