## Chapter 126: Arthur’s Cheap Labor
“This is an era of both change and conservatism,” declared Disraeli, his voice resonating with a theatrical flourish. “The Whigs and the Tories represent only their own interests. But I, I represent the entire, glorious people of Great Britain! Remember my name: Benjamin Disraeli, candidate for the 8th seat in the Westminster constituency. A vote for me is a vote for yourself!”
He paused, gazing at the sky ablaze with the golden hues of sunset, and instinctively adjusted his posture, wincing at the slight ache in his back from standing for hours.
The small gathering of listeners at his feet, a motley crew of men and women, approached him one by one. “Mr. Disraeli,” one of them spoke up, “could you settle our wages for today? You promised six pence per hour, and there were five of us for three hours, making a total of seven shillings and six pence.”
Disraeli rolled his eyes, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “What’s the rush? It’s not like I’m going to stiff you…”
He muttered under his breath as he pulled out his wallet, extracting a few coins and handing them over.
The group, their faces now beaming with smiles, asked, “Sir, will you be back tomorrow?”
Disraeli, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, replied with a touch of annoyance, “No, I’ve been giving speeches here for days. And besides you, hardly anyone is willing to listen. At this rate, I don’t know when I’ll get enough votes to be elected.”
Just as he finished his sentence, he caught sight of a young man with dark hair, intently observing him from outside the park’s railings.
Behind the young man stood three figures, their hands laden with bags and luggage, looking like his servants.
It was clear at a glance that this young man was a voter.
Disraeli’s eyes lit up, and he quickly approached the railings, offering a smile to Arthur.
“Sir,” he greeted, “are you interested in my speech?”
Arthur seemed hesitant, but he glanced back at the mountain of luggage, then nodded earnestly.
“I am indeed, but I simply don’t have time to listen to your political views in detail. As you can see, I’m busy moving.”
“Moving? Where is your new home?”
“Not far from here, Lancaster Gate in Bayswater.”
“Lancaster Gate?!”
Disraeli’s smile widened considerably.
He scanned the surroundings, ensuring there were no police officers nearby, before making a surprising move. This gentleman, dressed in a fine black tailcoat, leaped onto the railing, gracefully using the ornate carvings as footholds to vault over.
He dusted his hands, a chuckle escaping his lips. “You must be new to London, right? It’s a strange place, and you probably don’t know how to get to Lancaster Gate. Let me show you the way.”
Before Arthur could even respond, Disraeli, without waiting for permission, grabbed Arthur’s suitcase and, with an almost superhuman effort, hoisted the large storage trunk onto his shoulder.
His face flushed crimson, but Disraeli maintained his composure, asking with a smile, “What number are you at?”
Arthur bowed apologetically. “Number 36, Lancaster Gate. Thank you for your help.”
“It’s nothing, sir, don’t be so formal. An aspiring public servant should always strive to solve problems for the public. You’ll get to know me soon enough. Once I’m done helping you move, I’ll explain my election platform in detail…”
As he trudged forward, Disraeli continued to expound upon his grand vision and promises for the future should he be elected.
Arthur, however, remained rooted in place, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He lit his pipe and took a drag, then extended his hand towards Eldred. “One shilling, I win.”
Eldred, visibly annoyed, fished out a coin from his pocket. “Damn it! There really are idiots in this world who are willing to carry your stuff for free. Look at him, like he’s going to thank you for letting him do the heavy lifting!”
Darwin shook his head. “He’s after Arthur’s vote, isn’t he? A little bit of carrying, and he gets a favor. It’s a cheap deal.”
“Vote?” Eldred scoffed. “Charles, have you forgotten? Arthur is a Scotland Yard policeman. He doesn’t have the right to vote. That guy is just a clueless schmuck who got suckered in.”
Hearing this, Arthur quickly raised a finger, whispering to Eldred, “Shh!”
Disraeli, his mouth dry from all the talking, finally noticed Arthur’s silence. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you moving?”
At this, Alexandre Dumas, pretending to be overcome with exhaustion, dropped the luggage and clutched his left leg, groaning. “Oh, dear, my ankle! It’s sprained!”
Arthur, unable to contain his amusement, shot the fat man a withering glance before playing along.
“Oh, Alexander! I spent so much money to redeem you, and you don’t even show any gratitude. Now you tell me you can’t carry anything? If you keep this up, I’m going to send you back to the plantation in Saint-Domingue.”
Dumas, nearly exploding in anger, managed to contain himself. He realized that being spared physical labor was far more advantageous than petty verbal victories, especially since the marble archway leading to Arthur’s new home was at least a mile away.
He feigned agony. “Mr. Hastings, it’s an old injury. It’s not that I don’t want to try, but my leg just can’t handle it.”
Eldred, eyeing the Frenchman, nudged Darwin. “Charles, weren’t you a surgeon? Come on, once we get there, give him a good sawing.”
Dumas, finally reaching his limit, was about to unleash his French pride, but Disraeli intervened, playing peacemaker.
“Gentlemen, why are you doing this? It’s just some luggage. I’m in good shape, I’ll help you.”
He reached out to grab the two suitcases that Dumas had abandoned on the ground.
But Arthur was already one step ahead, picking up the one on the left. He smiled apologetically. “Mr. Disraeli, the one on the right is yours.”
Disraeli chuckled, but as he grabbed the left suitcase and attempted to lift it, he nearly choked.
His face turned pale. “Sir, what’s in this trunk? Why is it so heavy?”
Arthur smiled warmly. “Oh, just some insignificant personal belongings. A box of gold.”
“Gold?!” Disraeli weighed the suitcase in his hand, letting out a sigh. “Well, when you put it that way, it feels a lot lighter.”
He gritted his teeth, his entire body tense as he carried the ‘gold’ in one hand and the storage trunk on his shoulder.
He was too exhausted to speak, and the normally chatty Disraeli remained silent. The only sound on the bustling street of Bayswater was his labored breathing.
Dumas, limping along, regained his vigor when he realized that Disraeli was too preoccupied to bother with him.
His back didn’t hurt anymore, his legs weren’t sore, and he even had the appetite to devour a bag of chips bought from a street vendor.
Finally reaching their destination, Disraeli hastily unloaded the storage trunk from his shoulder.
He bent over, his hands resting on his knees, gasping for air.
He looked up at the three-story detached house with its small garden, muttering to himself, “Anyone who can afford to live in a place like this, who’d believe they don’t have the right to vote?”
He wiped the sweat from his chin with the back of his hand and turned to face Arthur, but after searching for a while, he only saw the fat servant. The other two servants and the gentle, scholarly young man had vanished.
“Gentlemen,” he asked, “where did your master go?”
Dumas, clutching his stomach and frowning, suspected that the chips he’d eaten earlier might have been a bit greasy. “I don’t know. We were about to call the police. Sir, look over there.”
Disraeli followed his gaze, seeing Eldred and Darwin animatedly speaking to a policeman in a Scotland Yard uniform.
As he was about to approach them, Dumas spoke again. “Sir, I advise you to stay away. That officer said he saw someone trespassing and vandalizing the railings in Hyde Park. He’s looking for you all over the place. You’d be walking into a trap if you go over there.”
“What?!”
Disraeli, panicked, quickly pulled a card from his pocket and shoved it into Dumas’ hand.
“Please inform your master that I live nearby. When the police find him, I’ll be sure to visit again.”
With that, Disraeli hastily pulled his hat low, quickening his pace and disappearing from the officer’s line of sight.
Eldred, catching a glimpse of him, waited until he was out of sight before removing the policeman’s hat.
The officer didn’t seem to mind, simply brushing the dust off his Bath Star shoulder strap before calmly approaching Dumas and taking the card.
— Lionel Rothschild, Rothschild Bank Consulting Advisor, Chairman of the Board of Directors of London Property Investment Consulting.
Eldred leaned in to take a look, frowning. “Damn it! He gave the wrong card. Isn’t his name Benjamin Disraeli? Even this guy wants to be a politician?”
Arthur, meanwhile, cast a glance in the direction Disraeli had fled.
He smiled slightly, tucking the card into his pocket. “He’s also a Rothschild family investment target? I seem to have developed a sudden interest in this fellow.”
(End of Chapter)