The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1593: Chapter 20: Wheatstone and Hastings Amid the Smoke and Fire (2)

The guest was draped in a thick wool cloak, carrying a black oak cane in his hand. He took off his gloves, sat on a wooden stool by the stall, patted the mist beads on his cloak, and skillfully waved to order: ”A cup of black tea and a set of two thins. The tea should be piping, and the bread should be burnt.”

Two thins are the most popular set meal at the coffee stall, and are beloved by the working class.

Two thin slices of bread filled with butter are served, and although the portion isn’t large, customers depend on them to fuel the morning’s busy work.

Such a set meal costs one penny in the West District and the Financial City. However, it’s 50% cheaper at the West Indies Pier.

”Good morning, sir.” The stall owner smiled, turned to pick a steaming bread from the edge of the charcoal fire with a worn-out silver clip, placed it on a porcelain plate, and scooped a small piece of butter: ”The butter today was delivered just last night, made by our farmers in the countryside, no water added.”

Arthur took the porcelain cup, the tea was hot enough to scald his hand, just how he liked it.

With nothing else to do, the stall owner stood beside him, chatting: ”Have you just got off work or are you starting your shift later?”

Ever since leaving the front line of Scotland Yard and no longer needing night duties, Arthur hadn’t heard the words ”off work” and ”shift work” for a while.

But it wasn’t surprising for the stall owner to ask this, as the people frequenting the coffee stall at this hour usually were workers getting off night shifts or starting early shifts, though occasionally a few night watchmen could be seen too.

Arthur gently nodded: ”Starting a shift later. Are you just starting your stall?”

The stall owner chuckled happily, his hands remain busy, pouring water for nearby new customers: ”Can’t say I just started! For folks like me, I need to get up at dawn to boil water; otherwise, if I’m late, my stall might get snatched away. Stalls in London these days are more coveted than peeling an orange.”

”Today’s crowd looks good.” Arthur stirred his tea with a spoon, watching the rising figures outside the tent: ”Mostly because last night’s wind went away.”

The stall owner followed his lead and replied: ”Isn’t that right? As soon as the weather warms up a bit, vegetable vendors can work better. If the weather freezes, vegetables turn into stone lumps, you can’t sell them either.”

Arthur saw two young workers dressed thinly and slender, standing outside the tent with a hopeful gaze, so he greeted the stall owner: ”Please serve these two gentlemen a cup of hot tea, put it on my bill.”

The stall owner was just placing the teapot back on the charcoal stove, and upon hearing Arthur, he replied without looking up: ”All right, sir.”

No particular praise, nor any verbal persuasion, but treated as seeing an ordinary little thing, since such situations happen almost every two or three days, considered a ”hidden rule” at the coffee stall.

Although frequenting here are mostly the penniless working class, somehow, London workers seem to universally believe that buying a cup of hot tea for those even more desperate won’t make themselves any poorer, so if in a good mood, anyone might treat those suddenly in dire straits to a drink.

However, for Arthur, this was his first time treating someone at the coffee stall.

Not because he was stingy, but because previously he came wearing Scotland Yard uniforms, and police were never welcome on the streets, especially since he often encounters people engaged in illegal activities here.

According to Arthur’s experience, of the women showing up at the coffee stall between 2:30 and 5:00, ninety percent were streetwalkers, of course, the elegant wording ”streetwalkers” was for parliamentary use. At the coffee stall, people usually referred to them as ”unfortunate girls.”

Another more identifiable potential offender were drunkards, 2:30 to 5:00 was also their appearance time.

But compared to drunkards, Arthur preferred dealing with ”unfortunate girls,” because the former were obviously more dangerous, alcohol often made those big burly guys lose basic judgment, leading them to suddenly come up with moronic ideas such as openly attacking police officers.

When Arthur first joined Scotland Yard, he once suffered due to this, if he hadn’t run fast enough, he might have been severely beaten with a chair by those drunkards.

Since then, every time Arthur worked night shifts, he always carried a police knife with him, as reasoning with drunkards was impossible.

Recalling his Scotland Yard night patrol experiences from a few years ago, Arthur couldn’t remember much, because most of the time back then, he was just eager to finish breakfast and go home for a nap; he had no mood to appreciate street scenery.

Even strolling the street, 14 continuous hours of walking is enough to kill any urge to do other things.

Back then, Arthur most envied those clerical workers in the Financial City.

Around 7 in the morning, one could watch a group wearing pea-green, tangerine, and rose-pink gloves, deep-red suspenders, and shirts embroidered with dahlias, adorned with kaleidoscope-style shirt decoration pins, young clerks passing through the streets, streaming in from Summers, Camden, Islington, and Bentonville to the Financial City, Court Street, and Lawyers’ Association.

And the predecessors of these young clerks, the middle-aged clerks mostly wore white scarves and black coats, steadily progressing, except in Arthur’s eyes, middle-aged men seemed far more hypocritical compared to young ones. They knew every approaching person, because, except Sundays, they met daily for 20 years, yet middle-aged folks were reluctant to greet anyone, not even a ”good morning.”