The Happy Days of Being a Factory Owner in London – Chapter 28
by MonoExpansion
Thirty people?
By the time Arna returned home with a stack of newspapers, only Sherlock Holmes was sitting in a chair at 221B Baker Street, flipping through a stack of notes.
Evidently, Dr. Watson had gone out on a house call, and Mrs. Hudson was likely out shopping.
Arna placed the stack of old newspapers beside Holmes, then threw herself into the soft sofa like a sack of disappointed potatoes.
Holmes did not look up.
“Oh, Mr. Brownlow has already contacted me. The moment he arrived, I knew it was you who advised him. He provided a rather handsome commission,” he said absentmindedly, adjusting the flame beneath a bubbling flask. “Our good doctor will certainly be willing to accompany me to investigate Oliver’s matter. It may take two weeks. We need to start our search in Limehouse1; a witness claims to have seen Monks there.”
At this, he glanced at Arna. “Do try not to burn down London while we are away.”
At the mention of Watson being dragged out by Holmes, Arna sighed, wanting nothing more than to stuff herself deeper into the cushions.
Without the kind Dr. Watson, who else would carry her back to Baker Street from all sorts of strange places at two in the morning?
Most importantly, the kind that didn’t charge a fee.
There were not many good people like that left these days.
“Then let Dr. Watson go,” she said melancholically. “Fine, that’s just fine. Leave me alone to contemplate the factory’s expansion.”
Seeing her sprawled out and listless, Holmes coughed.
“Your factory is expanding again? It seems Brownlow must have given you a sponsorship. Let me guess how much,” he said deliberately. “Three hundred pounds?”
“Five hundred pounds,” Arna said, sitting up with renewed vigor and immediately beginning to show off. “I opened an account and deposited it in the bank.”
“A wise choice,” Holmes said, rather supportive. He casually extinguished the flame with a cap and returned the flask to the rack. “What are your plans now?”
“Buy machinery, expand production, and hire workers,” Arna said. “I am considering whether to hire male or female workers, or continue to… hire apprentices.”
Different choices brought different benefits. The system interface provided a rough overview of the specifics: male workers required fifteen shillings2 a week, but cheap female workers needed a minimum of only seven shillings.
Of course, due to differences in physical strength and traditional mindsets, even if female workers were sufficiently cheap, most factories requiring heavy manual labor still prioritized male workers.
As for apprentices… well, she was currently paying the children a wage of four shillings a week. Factoring in the cost of food and boarding, it came out to five shillings at most.
—To be honest, she still wanted to choose female workers.
They were several shillings cheaper! And her factory did not have much heavy physical labor to do anyway.
In fact, if the system offered the option to hire aliens, and the price was cheaper than humans, she would gladly hire aliens.
“Damn money,” Arna muttered. “Why can’t I just get rich overnight?”
She counted on her fingers. “Besides that, I’m also thinking about where to order gears.”
Buying them from the system was certainly stable, but the asking price was slightly higher, and there was no way to haggle.
“Think of the bright side. For instance, you have already received five hundred pounds today,” Holmes said thoughtfully, picking up one of the old newspapers she had left nearby. “Also, from a statistical standpoint, the gender factor in recruitment is unrelated to production efficiency. If you are prioritizing cost, then yes, the cost of hiring women is exceptionally low. As for the gears—”
He tossed the useless newspaper aside. “You can place an order with Wilkinson. Their steel is quite good, though they might not accept small custom batches.”
It was about time. Holmes glanced at the clock on the wall, stood up, and took his coat from the rack. “If you have nothing else to ask, I am going out for dinner now.”
Arna’s eyes lit up. She stared at him, saying nothing.
Sensing the silent, intense gaze on his back, Holmes paused his hand on the buttons of his overcoat.
He turned around to see Arna staring at him with wide, expectant eyes, like a puppy that had just heard the command “let’s go for a walk.”
“…Dinner,” Holmes said in an exceptionally flat tone, “will be just Watson and myself.”
Arna blinked slowly.
The unspoken ‘Can I come?’ hung in the air, mingling with the bizarre odors of the chemical experiment he had just completed.
“Absolutely not,” Holmes insisted. He looked like a servant in charge of cleaning the room, armed with a rag and trying to obliterate a particularly stubborn stain. “I need to discuss the case with Watson. And you, you refused to explore these far more wonderful things with us, preferring to focus on your little workshop and those petty businesses—”
Arna blinked again.
Holmes exhaled sharply through his nose. “…Fine, come along. Angus Restaurant, seven o’clock, the table in the corner.”
He added reluctantly, “The hackney carriage3 is already waiting outside.”
Arna let out a cheer and bounced off the sofa.
When the three of them were seated around the corner table at the Angus Restaurant, the usually quite tolerant Watson merely smiled softly at his sherry.
He unhurriedly unfolded his napkin, clearly finding this highly amusing. “Holmes, you must have noticed the rather particular seating arrangement I chose.”
There were three forks and three wine glasses on the table. Evidently, Watson had long anticipated how things would turn out.
Holmes glared at his own soup, as if the dish had somehow offended him.
“Absurd. You are enabling this fellow,” he grumbled.
“Oh, come now, Holmes. You couldn’t truly expect to leave our young friend behind, letting the child dine all alone at home,” Watson said helplessly, shaking his head with a smile. “Besides, you brought him along anyway.”
This made Arna even more reluctant to part with Dr. Watson. “Doctor, you’re so good to me. Don’t go investigating with him. I need you here too!”
She forked a piece of steak and took a bite, instantly won over by the juicy, rich flavor. She happily categorized this item into her list of “the best food I’ve eaten since coming to London.”
Watson patted Arna’s arm.
“My dear boy, obviously, I cannot let him go alone,” he said, half-joking. “Otherwise, he would either starve to death or get shot by a gamekeeper. It is always the same.”
Holmes scoffed and lowered his head, aggressively slurping his soup.
But Arna was in no mood to care about what was currently going through the mind of the greatest and most unique consulting detective of the Victorian era.
She inhaled her meal ravenously. Once full, she gazed contentedly at her maxed-out Stamina Bar and breathed a sigh of relief.
After bidding her two flatmates farewell and returning to Baker Street, Arna began planning the factory upgrade and recruitment.
She opened the interface panel. It specified that upgrading the factory required 【Fifty Employees】, having 【Two or More Parts Suppliers】, building an 【Assembly Line】, and securing a fixed partnership with 【One or More Buyers】.
Fifty employees. She currently only had eleven.
Recruitment could not be delayed!
…Of course, she couldn’t hire them all in one go; she had to take it step by step.
The next day, Arna went to the newspaper office first to place an advertisement, stating she was recruiting thirty female workers—no accommodation provided, ten shillings a week, and one meal included.
Ten shillings was the system’s “reasonable suggested price.” Considering that a positive mood could stimulate higher efficiency, Arna decided to be a bit more generous.
Soon, the morning paper published Arna’s ad, sandwiched between a rat-catcher’s notice and an advertisement for a panacea promising to restore hair growth and all manner of virtues.
By noon, whispers about this recruitment notice had spread like the wind through the tenements and washhouses around Whitechapel.
Ten shillings a week, plus a meal.
“No factory would pay that much to an honest working woman,” Rose Carter murmured.
She was vigorously scrubbing a stain out of a banker’s shirt sleeve in a cramped washhouse. The air was filled with suds from the soap, making the recruitment notice feel just as much like a daydream’s bubble.
Down by the docks, Mary Flynn folded the newspaper into her apron with trembling hands.
As a mother of three, she had long endured hunger. Forced to care for her husband, whose lungs had been ruined by coal dust, she had to leave the loom and had been out of work for a long time.
“Ten shillings,” she muttered to herself, shivering. “Maybe… I can set aside enough to buy more food, and let the children look after their father.”
In the corner of another textile mill, six girls quietly exchanged glances, surrounded by the clattering, dizzying roar of the looms.
“The foreman only gives us seven shillings,” one of the girls whispered. “…And he docks our pay if we snap a thread. Five pence for every broken end.”
At the thought of this, she clicked her tongue in heartache.
By sunset, a long line had formed around the corner from the factory gates.
Aside from those whose faces were etched with despair and utter exhaustion, there were also many sharp-eyed women with heavily calloused fingers, studying the building as if it might suddenly vanish in a puff of smoke.
Nancy stepped out of the side door carrying a bucket. Seeing so many people, she nearly dropped it.
Women of all ages were huddled together in the dim twilight, pulling their shawls tight in a clear attempt to ward off the cold. Their faces were a mix of determination and cautious hope.
“Oh my,” Nancy gasped, hastily catching her bucket, though some water still splashed onto her boots. “You’re all here early. The notice said nine o’clock tomorrow morning!”
A sturdy woman with iron-gray hair stepped forward. “Yes, nine o’clock tomorrow.”
“But it doesn’t hurt to line up early, does it?” Her voice was gravelly. “The last time wages like these were posted, two hundred people showed up for twenty spots. Do you think we’d risk missing the recruitment time? If we come later, there’s no guarantee we’d even make it here on time tomorrow.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
Another girl in her teens stood on tiptoes in the crowd and asked curiously, “Did they… did the factory owner really give you and those children enough to eat? As in, a full stomach, no more and no less?”
Because of too little food and too much work, her cheeks were hollowed out.
Nancy wiped her hands on her apron, her expression softening.
“Yeah, we get unwatered porridge, bread, cheese, some pies, and sometimes fish and meat,” she said. After a moment’s hesitation, she lowered her voice and added, “As long as you don’t make mistakes, the boss won’t dock your pay.”
The women in line exchanged glances, a mixture of disbelief and anticipation.
The woman with the iron-gray hair offered a small smile.
“Then you’d best go tell your boss right now that you need to prepare more chairs,” she said with absolute certainty. “None of us are leaving until we get our chance to apply.”
Nancy sighed, looking at the ever-lengthening queue.
“Right,” she said, noting the freezing weather. “Tell you what, I’ll go fetch some hot tea first.”
0 Comments