The Happy Days of Being a Factory Owner in London – Chapter 27
by MonoCooperation
Agreement Reached!
Solicitor Green certainly had reason to be displeased.
He viewed Young Mr. Aisas as he would his own nephew. For such a clever, ambitious, and kind-hearted child, even if he occasionally complained to his wife about the boy being a little eccentric, he would never speak a single ill word about him in front of outsiders.
But—who was this fellow? He didn’t look like a decent sort.
Thus, Solicitor Green put on the expression he usually reserved for facing defense counsel’s accusations: a slight purse of the lips and a contemptuous tone. Of course, outside of the courtroom, Solicitor Green typically saved this expression for persistent door-to-door hawkers and particularly stubborn pigeons.
Editor Charles Pike, whether intentionally or not, ignored the elderly gentleman’s coldness and extended a rather enthusiastic hand. “Charles Pike, London Chronicle. I have just been granted the opportunity to exclusively witness young Mr. Aisas’s groundbreaking work!”
Solicitor Green did not shake his hand.
Instead, he adjusted his glasses and said slowly, “Ah, the press.”
He spoke with the tone of someone witnessing the birth of a malicious rumor. “You plan to come here, dress up the facts, and turn them into some sensationalist fairy tale, do you?”
Editor Pike’s smile faltered slightly, but he did not back down. “I am here to celebrate innovation, sir. The public has a right to know—”
“The public has a right to know the accurate facts,” Solicitor Green stated, “not your usual… creative embellishments.”
He deliberately turned his back to the editor and spoke solemnly to Arna. “Young man, you must understand, these journalists are like stray cats. Feed them once, and they will howl at your door forever, twisting your words into whatever suits their circulation.”
Before the editor or his assistant could protest, he raised a hand and let out a somewhat reluctant sigh. “Of course, a cleverly crafted report could deter certain unwelcome visitors from coming here in the future. Investors read the papers, as do the magistrates, and naturally, so do criminals. The choice is entirely yours.”
Editor Pike looked at the thoughtful Arna, then at Solicitor Green who had just finished playing the villain, and clearly understood what the seasoned solicitor was trying to convey.
Like any seasoned opportunist, he seized the chance. “Mr. Aisas, I personally assure you—I am by no means the sort of scoundrel who digs into private lives and scandals. Just imagine the headline: “Genius Inventor Outsmarts the Mob”! Good heavens, your backers will line up from here to Mayfair1!”
Solicitor Green said nothing. He merely snorted and turned his gaze back to Arna.
The young factory owner was clearly deep in thought, weighing the feasibility of this proposal. Her chin was tilted slightly, her eyes fixed on a random spot in the room—the very picture of a genius contemplating a monumental decision.
The room fell dead silent.
Arna snapped back to reality, suddenly realizing that everyone in the room was staring at her.
“Ah, yes.” She nodded sagely. “That is… a very good method. We should do that. You both make excellent points.”
Solicitor Green raised his eyebrows slightly, adjusting his original expression of disapproval into one of validation. “Very well, a prudent answer. Very wise, Young Mr. Aisas.”
Meanwhile, Editor Pike looked as though he had just won a race. “Splendid! I will have James draft the article tonight—we’ll get our report printed before anyone else can snatch the scoop!”
Behind him, James the assistant wore the doomed expression of a man forced into unexpected overtime.
He forced a cooperative smile, muttering in a voice too low for anyone else to hear, “Haha, yes. Exactly, I will do my best.”
Since he had a client to meet in the afternoon, Solicitor Green returned in his carriage once he confirmed that Arna was unharmed and the factory was relatively secure.
Before leaving, he sternly warned her not to accidentally throw away those three envelopes, as it would cause massive trouble.
Editor Pike and his assistant, on the other hand, took lap after lap around the factory, not even sparing the apprentices’ dormitory. Finally, they left completely satisfied, not even bothering to bid Arna goodbye on their way out.
But none of that was the main point.
The main point was that, in order to find a place to set down the three envelopes containing her patent documents, Arna tidied up her cluttered desk and eventually unearthed a slip of paper.
It bore a beautiful signature, and a scrawled amount of five hundred pounds was written inside a small box.
In the era Arna came from, people generally described the act of scribbling on a piece of paper and declaring it to be money as “playing house.” But since this was a game, Arna was willing to place a little faith in Mr. Brownlow, an NPC who certainly looked the part of a wealthy man.
Clutching the precious slip of paper, she headed downstairs and found Mrs. Hudson sitting by the table, guiding Nancy through her knitting.
“Aunt, look.” She waved the slip of paper like a flag of victory. “Mr. Brownlow said this is five hundred pounds, but it doesn’t look much like a pound note…”
Mrs. Hudson stopped mid-stitch. She stared at the thin piece of paper as if it might bite her.
“Aisas, my dear,” she said slowly, speaking as if to a particularly confused kitten. “This is a bank cheque. You have to go and cash it before it turns into money.”
Amidst the rising giggles of the apprentices, Arna narrowed her eyes and inspected the rather complicated-looking slip of paper.
“Ah, oh,” she said blankly. She opened her interface panel and began scanning the densely packed map locations representing banks. “I have to exchange this? Which bank?”
“It’s written right there on the cheque. You need to go to the Oriental Bank2.” Mrs. Hudson sighed again. “Of course, before that, you need to do one thing—take me back first. I must return to Baker Street. The house needs looking after, or the maid will slack off.”
The working children’s eyes widened.
After a flurry of nudging and pushing, the prettiest of the bunch, Oliver, was elected to step forward. He spoke up boldly, “Mrs. Hudson, our lunch is almost ready. Mrs. Laura made an extra portion…”
“Oh, good child,” Mrs. Hudson said with an amused smile. “You all share it amongst yourselves. Eat a little more, get completely full, and rest well. I will come visit you again in a while.”
She stood up and handed the remaining knitting back to Nancy, having clearly decided to leave immediately. “See you in a few days.”
Arna quickly brought the carriage to the door. She waited until Mrs. Hudson had boarded and seated herself securely before cracking the whip.
The horse steadily carried Mrs. Hudson back to 221B Baker Street first, before turning onto a new path toward the Oriental Bank.
The bank’s grand stone facade soon loomed into view on one side of the street, its brass fixtures gleaming beautifully in the light.
Arna parked the carriage and casually stopped a passerby. “Where can I cash a cheque?”
The gentleman, sporting a top hat and wielding a gold-plated walking stick, paused in surprise.
“Cash a cheque?” He adjusted his monocle, looking the presumptuous fellow up and down with a hint of “aren’t country folk quaint” superiority. “Inside. You may inquire with the staff.”
Arna’s eyes lit up with sudden realization. She thanked him and quickly stepped inside, only to be instantly dazzled by the clean, brightly lit hall and the complex, ornate decorations adorning the walls.
…If only I could come here at night. Dammit, why are there people everywhere.
She let out a sorrowful sigh.
As it happened, an older, kindly clerk nearby noticed the seemingly lost rustic.
He stepped closer and asked in a soft, polite voice, “Sir, what business would you like to conduct here today?”
Arna held up the cheque. “I’m here to cash a cheque.”
“Oh, then you’ll need the teller’s window,” the clerk said, guiding her toward a queue beneath a sign engraved with the word “Teller”. “Right here.”
There were simply too many people. Even a line at a bank had this many people just standing around with nothing better to do.
How wonderful it would be if I could capture all these people and make them work in my factory!
Arna let her imagination run wild for a while. It took nearly an hour before she finally reached the front of the queue.
Behind the window sat a thin, slightly arrogant teller. He glanced up at Arna, the corners of his mouth turning down in a slight frown.
“What business are you here for?” he asked in a strictly professional tone, his fingertips tapping impatiently against the counter.
“I’m here to cash this.” Arna slid the cheque across. The slip of paper fluttered lightly as it spun across the marble surface.
There was not a trace of rustic nervousness or anxiety in her tone, which actually made the teller pause in surprise.
He picked up the cheque, squinting to examine the signature and details. His eyes suddenly widened. He shot another quick, scrutinizing look at Arna.
“…This sum requires a brief verification, sir,” he said, turning the cheque over to check the endorsement again. “You are?”
“Arna Aisas,” Arna replied without blinking.
A few gentlemen nearby, who had been conversing in low voices about investments and dividends, cast curious glances her way.
“This is… er, quite a large sum,” the teller felt compelled to emphasize again. “Are you withdrawing all of it?”
As he spoke, he kept glancing around, seemingly expecting some lawyer or guardian to emerge from the woodwork and explain what was going on. But there was no one in the queue behind her except a line of blankly waiting customers.
Arna gave a sound of confirmation. “Yes.”
Meeting the teller’s shocked gaze, she hesitated before adding, “…Will it take a long time? Do you not have enough money?”
To think this place looked so magnificent, yet they couldn’t even scrounge up five hundred pounds on the spot?
The teller’s face instantly flushed red.
He clearly felt this was a grave insult and replied with great indignation, “No, of course not! It is simply because the amount is large and requires proper verification and counting.”
Right behind Arna, a bank manager quietly approached his target.
“Indeed,” he said. He wore a crisp uniform and an affable smile. “But, sir, perhaps you might be interested in learning about our bank’s private savings account? It would be far more convenient when you wish to draw upon these funds. If you do not yet have an account, we could assist you, and every month you could even earn…”
Arna was startled by the voice suddenly ringing out behind her.
But after listening to the manager’s pitch, she fell into deep thought for a moment. “…I can withdraw and use it whenever I want?”
“Yes,” the manager said briskly. “You would also be upgraded to a VIP client of our bank, which comes with some complimentary gifts.”
Three minutes later, Arna happily left the bank, carrying a stack of old newspapers taller than she was.
The manager stood frozen at the door, his expression caught somewhere between utter shock and a desperate attempt to hold back laughter. He had never expected someone’s hobby to be collecting old newspapers.
“If you require it,” he offered eagerly, “I can have someone deliver them to your door later…”
“This is enough for now.” She politely declined the bank manager’s offer to hail her a carriage and loaded the items onto her own.
Even though all of her previous newspapers had been ruined by Sikes’s men last night, it no longer mattered.
Thank goodness for the bank, and thank goodness for savings accounts! Now she wouldn’t have to worry about where to find cheap, easy-to-give gifts for the next few months!
Footnotes
- An affluent residential area in the West End of London, historically renowned as one of the most prestigious and expensive districts in the city.
- The Oriental Bank Corporation (known in Chinese records as Lìrú Yínháng) was a real and prominent British imperial bank in the 19th century, headquartered in London with extensive operations across Asia.
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