The Happy Days of Being a Factory Owner in London – Chapter 29
by MonoThe Queue
Arriving early is not as good as arriving at the right moment
When Nancy sent the children up to notify Arna, she was still slumped over the desk in the office, worrying.
She had met no shortage of qualified suppliers, and the precision of their gears varied widely—but the ones with reasonable prices lacked finesse, while the quality ones were priced no differently from what the system itself offered.
At this rate, she might as well buy from the system. At least she would not have to transport the goods herself.
The merchants who had seemed so reasonable in their shops were now quoting prices for bulk orders as if they were selling gears plated in gold.
Others had hinted she could order from the European continent, but that would require specialized vessels for transport.
She still needed to investigate further.
Just then, a soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
The door creaked open, and Oliver’s small, earnest face peeked inside, his eyes wide.
“Um, Mr. Aisas,” he cleared his throat and spoke loudly, “there are a lot of women outside who’ve come to apply. They say they’re going to stay here all day.”
Arna blinked, almost wondering if her memory had glitched.
“Isn’t the interview tomorrow?” she asked blankly. “How many is ‘a lot’?”
Oliver nodded gravely. “A very large number. Enough that the bakery owner next door sold out his cart twice already.”
“Nancy says half of them said they’d sleep on the street to wait, so they can interview early tomorrow—even though they know tomorrow is the actual interview day,” he clutched the hem of his shirt. “She’s made a few pots of tea to send out, to warm them up, but… I think you should come see.”
Arna blinked again, momentarily pulled away from her gear-related troubles.
She reached out and ruffled Oliver’s hair, messing it up. “Let’s go. Looks like I should see our new employees for myself.”
Oliver laughed, surprised and delighted. “Yes, Mr. Aisas!”
Arna pushed open the door and hurried down the stairs—then stopped short, stunned by the sea of people before her.
Women of all ages were packed into the narrow flat ground in front of the factory, stretching from the entrance all the way to the main road.
Her eyes went wide.
“Told you,” Nancy’s voice came from behind her. “When the wages are fair, news travels fast—faster than when you recruited the children.”
She was holding a tray, and beside her were children who had volunteered their own wooden cups, carefully carrying trays filled with hot tea.
Nancy handed a cup to a woman nearby. The woman thanked her gratefully, her frozen fingers accepting the cup, taking a sip before passing it to the next person.
“I didn’t expect this many,” Arna said dryly.
Would she have to interview through the entire second day? Why didn’t this game have a skip or 2x speed option?
“Indeed, what a pity,” the iron-gray-haired woman at the front crossed her arms. “We’re not leaving unless you reject our applications right now. Some of us walked five miles to get here.”
…Five miles?
The distance from Baker Street to the factory was only a little over four miles.
Honestly, the fun of walking in a game was picking up trash along the way. What was fun about a pure walking simulator?
This couldn’t be some conspiracy by a competitor—spreading rumors after her job posting to make future employees lose hope and leave in disappointment.
“You may have misunderstood,” Arna quickly clarified. “I don’t provide accommodation. Walking five miles—wouldn’t that be… a bit too far?”
Her words were immediately interpreted as concern and spread through the crowd.
The iron-gray-haired woman laughed aloud, half bitter, half amused.
“Dear, half of us have walked just as far for work before. But those jobs paid less than half of what you’re offering.” She gestured to the others behind her. “You think walking a few extra steps would scare us away?”
Others chimed in, agreeing chaotically.
“Better than begging!”
“My sister works in Manchester1—twelve hours a day, only six shillings a week, and she has to fight the foreman for that!”
“That’s right, at least here we get a meal!”
Faced with all those eager gazes, Arna sighed deeply.
“All of you… come inside first. Form a line,” she gestured. “You’ll stay in the factory tonight, for now.”
The children and Nancy got busy. First they handed out number cards to the women as proof of their place in line, then moved crates of gears and finished products from the corners to the back warehouse, clearing space. They assembled makeshift beds from a few wooden crates and tables.
There weren’t enough blankets, so they brought out straw from the warehouse and piled it on the crates.
The seventy or eighty women who’d come to apply hurried forward to help, and in the end, through everyone’s joint effort, they slept shoulder to shoulder, head to head—close and crowded, but warm together.
The doors and windows were tightly shut. Their shared body heat kept them warm, and even those without heavy coats didn’t feel very cold.
The factory gate closed with a creak.
In the dark room with no lights, someone spoke softly.
“This is so much better than we expected,” a girl whispered. “A roof over our heads, hot water. He didn’t even chase us away—he let us come in and rest! Honestly, when he came out, I thought he’d call the police to beat us.”
“Is that the point?” her friend immediately retorted. “That factory owner—he lifted two crates by himself! Like they were full of feathers!”
“Who cares,” another voice said quietly. “If he’ll pay me ten shillings and a meal, I’ll work for the devil himself.”
On the other side of the girls, the iron-gray-haired woman sleeping at the edge of the crates gave a low laugh.
“What a strange person,” she murmured. “Strong as an ox, but gentle as a lamb.”
After she spoke, the room fell silent.
Then another voice emerged from the shadows.
“…But handsome, isn’t he?”
A ripple of nervous laughter passed through the room.
The next day, when Arna’s carriage wheels reached the small path turning toward the factory, she found the road packed with people.
Women’s voices buzzed with anticipation. The new arrivals and those from last night had merged into the queue, filling the entire lane, nearly spilling onto the main street.
She had to stop early, leave the carriage and horse at the house where she stored them, and walk to the factory.
Nancy was already at the center of the women, directing traffic with the steadiness of a fleet petty officer.
“Yes, listen, everyone!” she called out, her voice a bit hoarse. She stood on a stool so everyone could see her. “Twenty at a time. No pushing, no cheating, or you’re out. Inside, you’ll get a set of parts. You have ten minutes to assemble them. Clean work means you pass. A mess means you’re done. Understand?”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, along with scattered, uncoordinated nods.
“Too many people,” Arna muttered, stepping forward to help. “Did half of Whitechapel come here?”
“No,” Nancy jumped down from the platform, smiling wryly. “Half of Whitechapel wouldn’t be this few. Probably just the most desperate fraction.”
Arna rolled up her sleeves. “Then let me help.”
Nancy opened her mouth, looking like she might say “no need,” but in the end she just called out, “Martha! Help out!”
The iron-gray-haired woman who had positioned herself at the end of the line for the last round of testing walked over.
Before Arna could blink, Martha had grabbed her shoulder and, at astonishing speed, set up a small area.
When Arna came back to herself, she was settled on an observation platform with a good view, a cup of tea in her hand, a crate-table beside her, and a plate of biscuits.
Looking down, she could see the first group beginning to file in. The position gave a clear view of everyone’s movements.
“There,” Martha announced, dusting off her apron. “You can manage from here.”
Manage—or more likely, “stay out of the way.”
Arna opened her mouth to protest, but then she thought about it.
Someone else had taken care of all the grinding work! She could just idle!
She happily opened her panel and started checking information, also looking at the status of the other children settled in another room.
The children’s status was fine, but it already showed the 【Completed Elementary Learning】 tag.
Arna poked at the explanation, and the system popped up a string of text indicating that their current learning had reached its limit. To upgrade them further, she would need to send them to a specialized school or hire a higher-level teacher.
In short: want to improve your little people’s stats? Spend money on them!
Arna: …She knew the developers had no good intentions! How much had she even earned?!
She angrily bit into a biscuit.
Below, the first batch of twenty lined up, sleeves already rolled.
They gathered near the long table, expressions focused, fingers flying over the parts—some nimble as tailors threading needles, others fumbling through the motions, learning as they went.
One woman’s rolled sleeves revealed defined muscle. Her movements were practiced; she finished in less than five minutes.
She flashed a challenging smile and held up her work. “Simple. What’s next?”
“Madam, what’s next is exiting the exam room and not speaking here,” Dodger, who had been pulled in temporarily as an exam proctor, said immediately.
He pointed to a spot. “Go wait over there.”
The woman made a disappointed “oh,” set down the parts, and walked over.
But Dodger, being the most talkative child, couldn’t hold his tongue.
He lowered his voice and whispered as she passed, “Nice work, ma’am! Way faster than us!”
The woman paused, then grinned.
By the time the final test ended, the sun had dropped below the roof. Sunset light filtered through the windows, casting a pale orange glow across the walls.
Fifty final victors now stood before Arna, backs straight, chins high, exhaustion on their faces.
Though Arna had originally planned to recruit only thirty in the first batch… so many had come, and quite a few had suitable tags.
In the end, she made an exception and hired twenty more, completing her first major goal.
…But facing so many people, Arna still had a headache.
Fifty people reporting to one person—just the thought was painful. Once you could suffer, there would be endless suffering.
So she chose the simplest solution—appoint team leaders. Let people manage people.
Arna clapped. “Alright, listen carefully.”
She pointed to the iron-gray-haired woman. “Martha, you’re the general team leader. They answer to you. Understood?”
Martha’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
But she quickly nodded, clearly accepting the job.
Additionally, Arna appointed two junior squad leaders. One was Dot, a former seamstress with the “dexterous” tag. The other was Rose Carter, the sturdy laundry woman.
Both straightened up, clearly pleased.
Finally, Arna turned to Nancy, who had been busy all day and was now standing in a corner, wiping sweat from her brow with her sleeve.
She smiled.
“The children, I have other plans for,” she said lightly, as if announcing what was for dinner. “Nancy, you’re my supervisor now. Double wages.”
Nancy’s mouth fell open at the sudden promotion. “I—but I’m just the children’s teacher—”
“No buts,” Arna happily tossed the filled register to her, like getting rid of a hot potato. “Now you’re everyone’s teacher!”
Laughter burst through the factory. The tension melted like sugar.
After the women dispersed in groups, Martha walked over from the back.
“We need more parts, Boss,” she looked even more like an overseer than an actual overseer. “Springs, too, and gears, and whatever other materials you use for these. Otherwise, everyone will run out of work within a month…”
“Ah, yes, I know,” Arna stammered. “Right. I’ll handle it now…”
She practically fled, scrambling into her carriage and vanishing in a cloud of dust.
Martha gave a husky laugh, watching her new boss disappear at the end of the road like a startled rabbit.
“Hm, that’s new,” she rolled up her sleeves and began cleaning the factory. “Boss running away from her own territory.”
Since some unexpected circumstances ended work early, the sky was still bright when Arna drove back to the carriage storage point.
By the time she walked near 221B, she found an unusually long queue on the pavement.
All kinds of well-dressed gentlemen stood in line—top hats on their heads, shoes polished to a shine—occasionally looking around as if waiting for something. Some knew each other and whispered about “great topics” like “the transformation of transportation” and “perfect innovation.”
Though she didn’t know what these people were doing, the scene was so orderly that Arna dragged her feet to the end of the line without much thought.
Soon she was wedged between a mustached gentleman and a distressed-looking man.
The line moved slowly. Some talked about “inventions,” others complained about “factories” and “investments.” Arna’s mind went blank, letting the crowd push her forward.
As the queue approached the front, Mrs. Hudson’s voice became clear.
“No, sir, the person you’re calling on isn’t home. What? Pass on a message? Sorry, too many people. Come back another day,” she said firmly. “Next!”
The next person also rambled about something before Mrs. Hudson unceremoniously shooed them away.
When Arna reached the front, Mrs. Hudson’s expression softened slightly. She shifted to make room on the steps.
“Go on in.” Her tone wasn’t particularly friendly.
The crowd immediately erupted in whispers, voices heavy with dissatisfaction.
“We got here so much earlier than him!” one person grumbled. “Why does he get to go in while we wait out here?”
“Because he lives here. This is his home.” Mrs. Hudson said flatly.
A hush fell over the scene.
The next second, even more agitated voices erupted from the crowd.
“Is that the person?!”
“Let me in—I’ve been here since two in the afternoon! I need to speak with him! Now!”
Just then, a police carriage from Scotland Yard stopped on the road near 221B.
Lestrade, holding a roll of parchment and an envelope, nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight before him.
A queue longer than a Sunday sermon wound along the street, full of impatient murmurs and occasional outbursts of “I say, this is simply unfair!” Most participants seemed to be businessmen.
“For God’s sake, what’s going on?” Lestrade stared. “Since when does London have this much crime?”
What, was this crime season now? Why didn’t he know anything about it?
And—and to take it back a step—these people could go consult other people at Scotland Yard, not queue up one by one to bother consulting detective Sherlock Holmes!
A man in the queue turned around, staring at Lestrade with equal shock.
“No, of course not, unless you count queuing as a crime!” he shouted. “My dear Inspector, we’re just waiting here. We want to know when Mr. Aisas is going to sell the patent for his carriage shock absorber!”
He waved a newspaper, nearly shoving it under Lestrade’s nose. “Look, genius inventor, but his factory has pitifully few workers—he doesn’t know how to run a business, but we do! We have plenty of workers. All we need is one visionary invention!”
“Quite right, exactly,” a stout gentleman in a vest agreed. “I’ll offer two thousand pounds for exclusive licensing! I’ll handle production. Just need to borrow his name!”
“I’ll offer five thousand! Five thousand pounds! Cobb Fields & Sons Transport Company!”
“I’ll offer seven figures! Seven!”
A bunch of noisy entrepreneurs had started bidding right downstairs, as if the person upstairs could hear them.
Lestrade squeezed toward Mrs. Hudson, looking in awe at the group now shouting numbers like madmen. “…Has it been like this all day?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson rubbed her temples. “Completely mad.”
Before those entrepreneurs could start shoving business cards at Lestrade as the most likely person to get inside, she pulled the poor inspector into the room and slammed the door shut.
“Well, looks like you need a guard, don’t you?” Lestrade headed upstairs, adjusting his slightly wrinkled collar. “To protect you from these fellows’ harassment?”
Arna stood by the window, peering out curiously, but quickly pulled back before anyone could throw a business card at the glass. She slammed the window shut.
“What exactly happened?” she asked blankly.
“Damned if I know,” Lestrade shrugged. “I’ve been busy all day with big cases and endless bureaucratic paperwork.”
He set the items on the table. “Your reward, and your, uh, honorary commendation. By the way, where’s Holmes?”
He looked worried. “Fagin confessed that quite a few thieves were acting under his orders. Many of the children on his list have unfortunately already been hanged. Also, what Holmes suspected—that Sikes was following someone’s orders to persecute the orphan—has been confirmed by a diligent detective’s investigation…”
Arna opened the roll of parchment first. On it was the phrase “Model Citizen,” surrounded by flowery praise and a neat, proper seal.
The envelope beside it contained ten five-pound notes, quite new, still carrying the faint scent of ink.
Together, these were clearly the mission completion reward.
The system’s notification chimed at the right moment, successfully unlocking her new title: 【Model Citizen】.
The effect: an added five percent intimidation against London’s criminal elements.
“…What an uncreative title,” Arna muttered. Hearing Lestrade ask about Holmes, she lifted her head from the panel.
“Oh, Holmes and Watson went out together,” she said. “To find more leads about…”
She paused, trying to remember. “The inheritance and Monks’ latest location, plus the records from when the workhouse took in Oliver. Oh, Oliver is that orphan you mentioned.”
Lestrade: “…Wait, you have all these leads and you didn’t tell me any of it?”
And these people secretly went off to investigate! If he hadn’t come today to deliver these things and Aisas told him, he’d still be kept in the dark!
Amid Lestrade’s self-doubt, Mrs. Hudson brought up two teacups and a pot of tea, setting them heavily on the table in front of them.
“I think you should see this,” she pointed to the newspaper on the plate. “That’s the source of today’s chaos.”
“What?” Arna paused before reacting. “Oh. Those people outside.”
Arna grabbed the newspaper first. Lestrade had to stretch his neck to peek at it.
The headline on the front page was striking:
Whitechapel’s Inventive Genius Transforms the Transport Industry!
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