The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 450 - 450 250 I Have Very Few Friends 5K

450: Chapter 250: I Have Very Few Friends (5K) 450: Chapter 250: I Have Very Few Friends (5K) Arthur ordered a pint of beer and blended into a penny house, leaning against the wall and quietly listening to the roaming singer’s impromptu tune; in the dim lighting and the noisy environment, Arthur in his overcoat seemed to have merged with the place.

In that dark corner, no one cared about the identity of this tall gentleman, nor what his intentions might be for being here.

Even Fiona’s sisters only gave him a glance at the beginning and then no longer paid him any attention.

As for the gangsters who came in later from the East End, the older ones wanted to strike up a conversation with Arthur, but after being tactfully declined, they wisely found an empty seat to watch the show by themselves.

The younger gangsters were still curious about the identity of this young, tall man, until they learned from the older gangsters, in hushed, mysterious tones, that this was Mr.

Arthur Hastings.

Only then did they start to feel an inexplicable sense of awe and fear.

The name Arthur Hastings, to most of those mingling in the East End, was like some strange creature within reach yet far away.

Before you met him, it always felt like a heavy stone pressing on your heart, and the old hands often used this name to intimidate and educate the newbies.

But when he actually appeared before you, he didn’t seem as impressive as you’d imagined, not the nefarious law star cloaked in black, cunning and calculating, with sharp fangs at the corners of his mouth, nor did he have a habit of sitting by the window facing the moonlight, draining a silver cup of fresh blood.

At least from his expression today, Mr.

Hastings appeared quite happy sipping on his penny beer.

The only thing that might have been noteworthy was the dish he was snacking on, which was neither ham, nor smoked fish, nor the bacon, fried eggs, and buttery jam toast commonly enjoyed by middle-class gentlemen, but a plate of salt-baked peanuts.

The regulars at the tavern from the East End knew that Martin’s Tavern’s menu did not include this item, and greedy, ill-tempered Mr.

Martin was not one to take special requests from patrons.

Getting Martin to obediently serve him a plate of peanuts indeed suggested that this silent, big man was truly the respected Mr.

Hastings, the one that bullies strived to please.

The young gangsters watched Arthur casually, observing him as he popped peanuts into his mouth, occasionally humming along with the wandering singer’s lyrics.

Suddenly, Mr.

Martin lifted the curtain of the penny house and walked in; he went over to Arthur, nodding and bowing as he said a few words, and closely following behind Martin was a young man of medium stature, stepping in riding boots, carrying a wooden suitcase, sporting a seal-like beard, with sharp eyes.

The veterans among the gangsters needed only one look to know that the young man following Martin must have been a soldier, and probably an officer at that, because his walk was too stiff, one hand swinging widely while the other barely moved—a clear sign he was accustomed to holding a command saber.

Arthur continued to eat while listening to Martin’s narration, then he gently nodded, stood up, and handed his empty plate to Martin.

For the first time, the gangsters heard the deep, husky, and magnetic voice of the big shot from Scotland Yard, “The peanuts today…”

The gangsters held their breath, hearts in their throats, as they saw Arthur lift the edge of his overcoat, revealing the Hasting M1831.

Inwardly, they speculated, Could it be that he found the peanuts too hard and was planning to finish off Mr.

Martin?

They saw Arthur’s hand slowly lower, then he abruptly plunged it into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his mouth.

With one hand wiping his mouth and the other pointing to his throat, Arthur said, “The peanuts today…

There’s just too much salt, it’s choked me up, listen to my voice.”

With a smile plastered across his face, Martin apologized profusely, “That’s indeed my fault; I’ve been thinking too much about what you once told me about not cutting corners in business while I was baking those peanuts, so I lost track of the salt.

Here, what about I make you another plate with less salt or get you some gin to rinse your mouth?”

Arthur gently waved him away, “Any more and it’ll be too much; I can’t afford to get drunk in front of clients.

How would I negotiate then?”

“You’re right, that was thoughtless of me.

So, do you want to go up now, or…” Martin glanced back at where the gangsters were gathered, then half-bent over with a smile, “Mr.

Hastings…”

Following Martin’s earlier glance, Arthur’s gaze settled on a young man with brown hair and dark eyes: wearing a flat cap, a white shirt, and an open dark grey long-sleeve coat over durable deep black suspenders—a classic East End dockworker’s outfit.

Arthur poured the last of the beer from his cup into his mouth and asked, “Is that the one Annie’s taken a fancy to?”

Removing his cap to reveal the stubborn narrow black peninsula lying across his receding hairline, Martin affirmed, “That’s right.

How much do you reckon I should pay you for this?”

At this, Arthur could only shake his head, “Martin, oh Martin, what have I done for you to treat me with such disrespect?

I’ve told you before, if you come to me as a friend, then those trying to harm you and your family will get what they deserve.”