The Happy Days of Being a Factory Owner in London – Chapter 10
by MonoRecruitment
Kid sister?
In the early morning, Oliver woke on his straw pallet, his mind still reeling from the events of the past two days.
Two nights ago, Fagin had been hunched over on a wobbly stool, his greasy fingers fiddling with a stolen pocket watch, his sharp eyes glinting.
On his other side lay a neatly folded stack of processed handkerchiefs. The embroidered names of their original owners had been picked out, and they were now waiting to be sold off for sum after sum of money.
Oliver sat opposite him, clutching half a loaf of bread, ill at ease.
He now understood what “no work, no food” truly meant. Today’s botched theft and desperate escape had made the food in his hands feel all the more precious. He had fallen into a den of thieves, and his new companions were all little pickpockets.
Nearby, the Artful Dodger leaned against a wall, casually tossing a stolen coin between his fingers. The other boys sat around them, warming themselves by the fire and playing a game of tag.
“Now listen closely, my dears,” Fagin said in a low voice, his fingers gesturing as if he were a sleek, oily rat conducting the transport of stolen food. “There’s a new game afoot. Moving things from there to here. It’s great fun, isn’t it? And it’s a game that’s not so likely to have you dancing on the gallows1!”
He tapped a grimy finger on the table. On it lay a crumpled newspaper clipping, cut out at the exact spot where the recruitment notice for the Aisas Factory was printed.
“Four shillings a week! A roof over your heads! And no magistrates poking around!”
The Dodger snorted.
“Since when did we start doing honest work, Fagin?” He flicked the coin up with his thumb, caught it effortlessly, and slipped it into his pocket, trying to dissuade the old man. “Don’t see the need for it.”
“Yeah,” Charley Bates chimed in, lazily stretching his legs toward the brazier, scoffing at the wage. “Four shillings, ha.”
“Of course, there’s more to it than what’s on paper. Look here, boys, would I ever let you go hungry?” Fagin chuckled. “I hear this fellow keeps a safe in the factory office.”
He grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. “A fortune worth two thousand pounds.”
Oliver frowned.
“But… but we can’t…”
Fagin clapped him hard on the shoulder, making Oliver sway. “Oh, my child! You don’t understand what’s happening at all, do you?”
“Work and theft, why should we draw a line between the two? You see, a factory is full of lovely little things. They go missing, it’s perfectly normal. Whitechapel is crawling with vicious gangs and ruffians. Who would look past all those villains and suspect an honest, harmless little apprentice?” He snapped his fingers. “Dodger, what do you say?”
“Just a way of life,” the Dodger said indifferently. “Right, Charley?”
Charley nodded. “You ought to lighten up, friend.”
Before Oliver could protest further, the curtain over the doorway was flung aside.
Bill Sikes strode in, his burly frame casting a shadow over the room.
Nancy followed close behind him, wrapped in a shawl. Her sharp gaze swept the room before landing on the newspaper on the table.
Sikes pulled a fresh newspaper from his coat, slammed it onto the table, and pounded his fist down. The pocket watches on the table nearly jumped from the impact.
“Oh, dear, dear,” Fagin cried, his heart aching for his treasures. He hurriedly took the opportunity to sweep the watches into his own pocket. “Bill, the watches didn’t do anything to you! What’s all this?”
“You know what provoked me,” Sikes said. “Look at the paper, the latest issue, Fagin! You’re not the only one with designs on that factory.”
Nancy pulled the clipping out from under Sikes’s fist and smoothed the crumpled paper with her fingers.
“See, it says they’re recruiting a teacher,” she said. “For the little ones, Fagin.”
“Yes,” Fagin said slyly, clearly unwilling to share the spoils. “But, Bill, my friend, I don’t take your meaning.”
He glanced at Nancy, a hint of hidden mockery in his eyes. “If Nancy leaves, who will take care of you?”
Sikes didn’t fall for it. He jerked a thumb at Nancy. “She’s going.”
Nancy’s eyes flickered.
“Bill,” she said softly, “I can’t—”
“You’re going,” Sikes roared, clearly considering the matter closed. “You’ll get the lay of the land. The valuable stuff, the worthless stuff, and how many people come and go.”
He crossed his arms and let out a short, gruff laugh. “That fellow is ruthless with men, Jack told me, but he’s got a soft spot for kids. A gentleman, is he?”
Fagin’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, splendid, my dear,” his tone turned instantly sweet. “Nancy gets the layout, the boys go in and out, do a bit of ‘transporting’—”
Nancy did not smile.
Her gaze swept across the room, pausing for a moment on Oliver’s pale face before moving on.
“Suppose I teach the children something real, too,” she murmured. “So they won’t be suspected.”
Sikes sneered. “Of course. Teach them to pick pockets, Nancy. Do whatever you like, so long as you get me a map and find a way to get that fool drunk. I’ll handle the rest. Including helping him shut that damn mouth of his forever. Serves him right for taking what he shouldn’t have.”
He straightened up and spoke to Nancy. “You go tomorrow. If you snitch on us—”
He didn’t finish the threat, letting his eyes serve as a warning to the girl who was, at times, inappropriately soft-hearted.
“Let’s go, Nancy.”
Oliver opened his mouth to say something, but the Dodger gave him a sharp tug, nearly pulling him off his chair.
Nancy frowned but didn’t complain about her lover’s words. With a low sigh, she said, “I understand.”
She schooled her features back into a weary, submissive expression, glanced back at Oliver with a flash of shame in her eyes, and then hurried to catch up with Sikes.
Oliver didn’t see Nancy again after that, but he ate and slept well for the next two days, spending his time playing games with Fagin in the den.
They were games to train finger dexterity, the purpose of which was to fish a wallet or a handkerchief from a bag, or perhaps some other, more valuable trinket.
Sometimes, he would retell the story of how the kind Factory Owner had thrashed Jack and Tom but let him go.
Oliver almost wished this waiting period would last longer, yet he couldn’t help but wonder if the Factory Owner would see through Fagin’s plan at a glance and have these terrible people…
He didn’t know. Perhaps locked in a confinement room for a while.
Or would they end up like Jack and Tom, with broken ribs, still lying in bed?
—But what if he really could get a good job? One that would let him support himself.
As long as there were no beatings, no insults, he could eat a little less food and do a little more work.
With these thoughts, Oliver dazedly changed into the set of clean clothes he had brought with him, washed his face, and followed the other children toward the factory.
The morning sun struggled to pierce the thick London fog. When he arrived, the young Factory Owner was standing on the freshly scrubbed steps, looking up and down at the children gathering in the courtyard.
The little band of thieves blended naturally among the ordinary children of the East End, chattering away.
“I’ve heard of the Aisas Textile Factory,” whispered a little girl with braided hair who lived nearby. She was wearing clothes made from an old flour sack. “My mum used to work here!”
“Tell us about it, Bella,” another boy pleaded. “Tell that story again!”
And so, the suddenly popular little Bella told the story she had told many times before: how her mother had come down with a fever at the loom, and how the elderly Factory Owner had generously paid for her treatment, making her mother remember her old master fondly for years after.
“So Mum told me to come,” she said naively. “I think it’s okay even if I get paid a little less at the start!”
At this, the other East End children instantly grew wary, and the fortunate Bella was not so popular anymore.
“No way,” they clamored. “Not one penny less! Oh, Bella, you can’t say things like that!”
Arna stood on the steps, looking down.
There were about twenty children below, some not even reaching her waist. Others were already hardened by years of difficult life, shifting nervously under Arna’s occasional glances.
Among them, the boy she had met once before stood in the crowd, his hands clenched, looking a bit tense.
Next to him stood a boy who oozed slickness from his very bones. His eyes darted everywhere, and his fingers curled slightly at the edge of his pocket, as if subconsciously wanting to grab something.
Arna cleared her throat, then clapped her hands.
“Line up,” she said. “Come up one by one, register your names, then take the test.”
Before anyone could react, the Dodger shot to the front of the line.
“No need to make a fuss, Sir,” he said loudly. “We’re all quick learners here!”
Nancy shot the Dodger a warning look. She had deliberately worn a blue dress today, her hair neatly combed, making her look especially gentle.
“Line up here with me,” she said, holding a notebook. “Tell me your name, and I’ll register you.”
She pointed to a long table inside. “Once you go in, you’ll find parts and a diagram on the table. Follow the diagram to assemble them step-by-step. When you’re finished, raise your hand. Understood?”
At the mention of an unknown test, all the children fell silent.
Some of the smaller ones were confused, looking at each other, at a loss.
Others, older children like Oliver who had some experience, stepped forward hesitantly, stated their names with determination, and walked into the factory.
After Nancy took over the process, Arna naturally fell into the role of supervisor and began to wander around.
She had drawn the blueprint yesterday. It was a basic assembly of parts—not difficult, but it required care and patience.
As she walked, she stopped in front of a girl who had already completed most of the task.
The girl looked to be about fifteen, with fresh black and blue marks around both eyes. She was the oldest of the batch. Her fingers were nimble and steady, assembling the parts according to the diagram without a single pause.
When she finished and raised her hand, Arna picked up the assembled component.
She was surprised to realize the quality of the part had actually improved. “Very good!”
Arna put the item down and looked at the girl, tapping a finger near her own eye.
“What happened here?” she asked.
Oliver was sitting next to her, his own work more than half done. Hearing her voice, he pricked up his ears.
The girl lifted her chin.
“Stopped a man from beating his dog,” she said, quite proudly.
The other children looked up, a strange hint of admiration in their eyes.
Arna paused, then asked curiously, “Why?”
She casually opened the Character Panel to check the girl’s stats.
The girl, whose name was Lucy, spoke with conviction. “Because the man’s a fool. The dog is much more useful than he is.”
Looking at her starting stats—Mechanical Manufacturing and Animal Affinity, both at a high of 8—Arna felt like her tears were about to embarrassingly flow from her mouth2.
She made an instant decision. “You’re hired.”
The author has something to say:
Arna: I pulled an SSR! (happy.jpg)
Like Mr. Green the solicitor, Lucy is an original character. Any time a character from the original novels appears, I will point it out.
- For any little angels who haven’t read Oliver Twist, here’s a simple introduction to the characters: the Dodger—a clever master thief; Fagin—the old Jewish leader of the thieves’ den; Charley—the Dodger’s partner; Oliver—the protagonist; Sikes—a burly thief; Nancy—Sikes’s lover, a young woman who grew up in the den.
- In the 19th century, the poor couldn’t afford to buy cloth, so they would sometimes make clothes from flour sacks (burlap bags). They would remove the brand logos from them. In that era, flour brands used very large logos to make their products stand out. An interesting story is that when the United States faced an economic downturn in the 19th century, making clothes from flour sacks became popular again. One flour mill heard about this and changed their flour sacks to have small label logos and pretty printed patterns, making it easier for families who bought the flour to turn them into clothes. And then, that company’s flour sold like crazy.
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