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whispered.
    â€œI’ve never seen anything so amazing,” I said, trying to look at everything at once. “It’s so quiet and peaceful in here. The place is full of people, but you can’t even hear anyone walking around.”
    â€œThat’s because they’ve taken their shoes off,” said Frankie. “Look, nobody has shoes on but us.”
    It was the “but us” part that should have warned me.
    Within a nanosecond, there was a gang of worshipers running toward us. “Stop them!” they shrieked.
    Frankie and I took off running. Passepartout wasn’t so lucky. Someone stopped him and pulled off his shoes.
    â€œMy wonderful French shoes!” he cried. He managed to twist out of their grasp and, slipping and sliding in his socks, tore across the floor to the exit. Meanwhile, Frankie and I had zipped out and clambered up to a sort of porch above the temple door.
    â€œBut I didn’t do anything!” cried Passepartout, facing an even larger crowd rushing at him from the street.
    â€œIt looks like we offended them by wearing shoes in the temple!” Frankie called down to Passepartout. “Now jump up to us!”
    Just as the crowd closed in, Passepartout jumped up and grabbed our outstretched hands. Amid the screaming of the throng, the three of us leaped from one colorful roof to another and finally down into the street.
    We didn’t stop until we boarded the train.
    Chug! Ssss! The engine puffed a huge cloud of steam and began to roll away. An instant later, the angry worshipers skittered into the station, screaming at the top of their lungs, and waving Passepartout’s shoes in the air.
    At the same moment, too, Detective Fix raced onto the platform. But the train was already too far along to catch. You would think the guy would be mad.
    Instead, he smiled at the crowd of angry temple worshipers and then, from far away, at us.
    â€œI don’t like the way he’s looking at us,” I said.
    â€œThen you won’t like this look, either,” said Frankie.
    I turned around to see Mr. Fogg glaring down at us.

Chapter 8
    â€œI believe I asked you not to get into trouble,” said Mr. Fogg as the train chugged on.
    â€œI’ve heard about your little escapade,” he said when we wormed our way to our compartment. “We must hold all local customs in great respect.”
    â€œQuite right,” said Sir Francis, who occupied the seat next to Fogg. “The government is very severe about this sort of thing. Quite against the law to wear shoes in an Indian temple. The worshipers get angry, you know.”
    â€œWe found out,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”
    â€œI am especially sorry,” said Passepartout, pulling on a pair of slippers and hanging his head the way I do when Mr. Wexler catches me daydreaming.
    â€œVery well,” said Fogg. And that was the end of it. He began scribbling in his notebook, and everyone else was fairly quiet for the next few hours. The train chugged swiftly into the evening.
    â€œPassepartout,” I said, “what time do you have?”
    He pulled out his watch. “Seven in the evening.”
    Sir Francis laughed. “You are over four hours slow!”
    Passepartout smiled. “Perhaps that is because I did not change it from London time.”
    â€œWhat difference does that make?” I asked.
    Sir Francis smiled. “It is seven in the evening in London, four hours earlier than it is here, because you have been traveling eastward.”
    Instantly, my head began to hurt. I guess it showed.
    The military man leaned forward. “You see, the earth is divided into three hundred and sixty degrees all the way around. Since your journey is taking you to the east, you gain four minutes with each degree you pass through. And I should guess that you have passed through some seventy degrees so far. That accounts for the four-hour time difference and why it is