Chapter 162: The Crown's Jewels (6) A quiet alley near the London Stock Exchange.
"Tsk."
Standing at the entrance of the alley, a man drew deeply on the cigarette in his mouth.
When the burning heat finally reached his fingertips, he flicked the cigarette away and crushed the still-burning butt beneath his shoe.
Judging by the number of nearly burned-out cigarette stubs scattered in front of his shoes, the man had already spent quite a long time here.
Even that seemed insufficient, however. The man pulled another cigarette from the pocket of his ordinary black suit—something seen anywhere—and placed it between his lips before taking out a match.
But before lighting it, he paused and let out a sigh.
"Tch. The more I smoke, the more of my salary I'm basically paying back to the boss."
Still, what else could he do? If he did not burn at least this much tobacco, it felt as though his chest would tighten and shrivel up at any moment.
In the end, the vice president of Ears of the Nation, Florian, struck the match and brought the flame to the new cigarette.
Florian himself was a vice president, after all. Couldn't the company at least provide cigarettes for free as a welfare benefit? It wasn't as if slipping a few to him would cause any grand problem.
What a stingy boss. If their boss were here, he would probably tell even God Himself to pay before taking a cigarette.
Next time he signed a contract with the boss, Florian resolved that he would absolutely include a clause guaranteeing free cigarettes as a "welfare benefit."
"More importantly… when are those kids going to show up? Nothing bad happened, right?"
After cursing his boss for sending him out into the streets in this freezing winter, Florian suddenly became worried about the children he had sent off and spoke without realizing it.
His worry did not last long.
Soon, the children arrived safely at the meeting place they had agreed upon.
"Mister! We're here!"
The three boys—children Florian had grown friendly with while investigating London's workers—came toddling forward on still-awkward steps.
"Peter, John, George! Nothing happened, right?"
"What the—mister, you're smoking again? Ugh, the smell. We told you we hate cigarette smoke."
"Ah, no. How did this end up in my hand?"
Florian shook his hand and threw the cigarette he had just lit far away.
Damn it, it had been a fresh one. He did not show it outwardly, but inside he felt a deep sense of waste.
Trying to shake off that feeling, Florian bent down toward the children and spoke.
"M-more importantly, how did it go? Did things work out? Nobody bullied you, right?"
"Of course, Mr. Florence! We're not kids, you know!"
The oldest, Peter, puffed out his chest proudly like a victorious general as he said this.
Florian could not help but laugh.
"You're only eight years old. What do you mean you're not a kid?"
"Hmph! I'm not a kid! The factory boss said I'm old enough to work, so I'm not a kid!"
"That bastard is a real son of a—. Ahem. Sorry."
Florian covered his mouth and coughed awkwardly several times. He felt a pang of guilt for letting a curse slip in front of children.
Making an eight-year-old work in a factory… does that even make sense? I didn't start working in a factory until I was sixteen. What in the world is this world coming to…
"Hoo…"
Florian let out a long sigh.
"Mister, why are you sighing?"
"Oh… nothing. Just something on my mind."
Florian forced a smile as he answered, but the children began whispering together, apparently trying to think of a way to cheer him up.
"Mister! Don't worry about bad things anymore—we brought this!"
Soon Peter, the same boy who had acted like a victorious general earlier, held out a stiff piece of paper nearly twice the size of his hand.
[Ireland Cotton Manufacturing Company — 1 Share]
[North Sea Cod Fisheries Company — 1 Share]
[Manchester & Portsmouth — 1 Share]
"Wow, you really did exactly what I told you!"
Florian said in amazement as he accepted the three sheets of paper.
They were legitimate stock certificates bearing the official seal and signature of the London Stock Exchange.
Which meant the children had faithfully carried out what Florian asked of them.
Feeling proud of them, Florian took three candies from his pocket and handed one to each child.
Children loved sweet things, after all.
"Mister, you're not going to call it even with just this, right?"
"W-what?"
Florian's eyes widened.
"O-of course not. This is just a bonus reward because you did such a good job."
"Whew. Hey! John! I told you! Mr. Florence isn't like that factory boss from before!"
"Hey, you never know until you get paid. How do you know someone won't cheat you?"
"H-ha… ha…"
What kind of world had London's children grown up seeing? Instead of holding onto childhood innocence, they had thrown it far away.
Florian could feel a growing desire to escape this harsh jungle of London—where schemes and unpaid wages ran rampant—as soon as possible.
But first he had to properly pay the children for the errand he had asked them to run.
Florian pulled out his wallet and handed each child a banknote.
"Here. Ten pence each. Peter, John, George—you all did a great job."
"Wow! Thank you, Mr. Florence!"
"Hey! With this we can eat meat today! An Isak Convenience Meal costs exactly ten pence!"
Ten pence.
Normally, it was money that could only be earned after crawling beneath a spinning machine all day and scraping together piles of thread from under the machinery. Or after polishing ten pairs of wealthy gentlemen's shoes until they shone.
And now they were holding it just for buying a few pieces of paper on someone's behalf.
The children's faces overflowed with joy.
"Mister! If you need more paper bought, ask me next time!"
"Me too! Me too!"
"Alright. I'll count on you again. And if you know any trustworthy kids, introduce them to me. I'll give them work too."
Florian spoke to the three children.
"""Yes!!"""
Seeing them so happy over enough money to buy just one convenience meal left a bitter taste in Florian's mouth. It felt as if he were exploiting these still-bright children for the sake of adult problems.
"Hoo…"
Florian sighed once again.
Then he began recalling the conversation he had with his boss a few days earlier.
— Boss, isn't this kind of like exploiting children?
— What are you talking about? We're paying wages for legitimate labor.
— Hmm…
— The people who built factories in London make children work all day and only give them ten pence. If we pay the same amount just for running an errand to buy a few sheets of paper, I'd say we're considering the children's situation quite well.
His boss had continued.
— The East India Company has already stabbed us in the back. As time passes, the survival of our company and the luxury department store will become more and more precarious. We don't have time to come up with another method. If you have a better idea, Mr. Florian, tell me. I'll adopt it immediately.
There was nothing wrong with what the boss said.
And when he said to suggest a better method if one existed, considering everything Florian had seen of the boss, it was sincere truth—certainly not meant to mock him.
— Mr. Florian. Behind me stand the employees of our Ears of the Nation. Our opponent is playing dirty and underhanded. I cannot make our employees suffer because of something that isn't even illegal but merely weighs on our conscience.
— You're right, sir.
— Well… if it still bothers you, think of it as teaching the children about "investment." The money going in is ours, not theirs.
— Yes, sir.
Florian had nodded in agreement at the time.
But now that he stood here in person, talking directly with the children, it felt as if something like a thorn was caught inside his chest.
Perhaps that was what the books called conscience. Humanity.
Florian silently placed another cigarette between his lips.
Mid-January, 1793.
London Stock Exchange.
— Ding, ding, ding.
The moment the opening bell rang, the little devils pushed their way through the doors of the stock exchange and began shouting in front of the counters.
"One share of Fullston Lock Manufacturing!"
"One share of Portsmouth Carpentry!"
"Wales Distillery!"
Those little devils were not buying blue-chip stocks like the East India Company or Baring Bank.
Instead, they were buying unheard-of junk stocks with practically no value.
Because of this, Edward doubled the amount of linen cloth he wrapped around his right wrist and began moving his pen across the paperwork without pause.
His left hand did not rest either. As transactions were completed, he had to constantly change the numbers engraved on the wooden price board. If he failed to do so, trading would halt—and to process the flood of orders behind it, they would need another clerk.
So Edward kept both hands moving nonstop.
When had the London Stock Exchange started absorbing this overwhelming volume of trades with its entire body?
A week ago? Two weeks? No—a month?
No.
He could not remember.
In front of this massive volume of transactions, even thinking was a luxury.
"Ugh… I can't do this anymore…"
The colleague working next to Edward at Counter No. 5 collapsed onto the wooden desk after saying those words.
Edward did not even feel pity as he looked at him.
He only thought:
Another one carried out. So now I have to handle his workload too? Fuck.
In the end Edward shouted aloud.
"Bloody hell!"
Normally he would have been summoned by the team leader and scolded—
"A stockbroker using language like a street thug? Have you no sense of honor?"
Or perhaps:
"You think you're the only one suffering? I'm suffering too!"
But now the team leader and everyone else were equally exhausted, muttering "bloody hell" under their breath just like Edward.
No one paid attention.
That night, once again, the lights of the London Stock Exchange remained on until very late.
I have no sin.
All the blame lies with those bastards from the East India Company. That's right. If they had behaved even a little decently, I wouldn't have gone this far.
I'm just following the words of a certain baseball manager.
The great god of baseball once said: the more you use your arm, the stronger it becomes.
So surely the arms of these stock traders handling this mountain of volume will become stronger too.
Right. I'm practically taking care of people's health for free.
"How is the atmosphere at the stock exchange?"
"It looks like they can't even properly tally the day's trading volume anymore. The opportunity has come, sir!"
Mr. Mayer said to me with a broad smile.
No matter how many connections Baring Bank had built with the stock exchange, if the exchange itself collapsed under the load, how would they maintain their cash flow?
"Good. Mr. Mayer."
"Let's really have some fun with this."
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