shadow of britain

Chapter 732 Why did Your Majesty rebel?

As night fell, Arthur left Kensington Palace in a carriage and headed straight for Leicester Square.

The reason was simple: several of The Limey's friends were waiting for him at the Alhambra Theatre.

Leicester Square was the busiest at night. As soon as Arthur's carriage entered the nearby road, its speed suddenly slowed down due to the surging crowd.

Through the window he saw a group of idle guys gathered on the street, including vendors, passing tourists and soldiers stationed in a nearby military camp. They gathered together around a makeshift small arena built of wooden boards, where a few arrogant roosters were fighting each other.

There was a wooden sign hanging next to the cockfighting arena that read - 1 shilling per game, odds of 1 to 100.

There is no doubt that this is gambling on cockfighting.

Similar activities were not uncommon in London, including dog fighting, cock fighting, bear fighting, badger fighting, and even rat fighting. Arthur didn't know what else in the world these gamblers couldn't fight.

However, the "Colosseum" he encountered today was really too much. They actually dared to play this blatantly on the street.

Of course, Britain does not prohibit animal fighting. As long as the venue obtains a license, the activity can be carried out legitimately.

But for those who fight directly on the street, there is no doubt that they have no license.

That is to say, Arthur no longer works at Scotland Yard, otherwise he would have been able to catch anyone in such a place.

Sure enough, just as Arthur made his judgment, he heard someone in the crowd shouting, "Damn it, the blue lobster has landed!"

Immediately afterwards, there was a series of "beep" police whistles, and three or four teams of police officers wearing new uniforms rushed out from various street corners and headed straight for the cockfighting arena.

The police officers were all agile and they jumped over the various obstacles that the gamblers had pushed down when they fled with the speed of hurdlers. If they saw any dishonest guys who wanted to use force, they would run up and hit them with sticks.

But the gamblers would rather be beaten than leave without grabbing a handful or two of the gambling money on the table. But how can the police officers let them do as they wish?
Catching gamblers has always been a lucrative job. As long as they pay enough to the government, they can share the rest of the gambling money as profits.

If the gamblers just run away, the police will most likely let them go, but if you dare to touch the gambling money, you will have to go to Scotland Yard.

It was a coincidence today that among the police officers, the leader of one team was Officer Mike Cawley, whom Arthur had met once.

As for Officer Cowley, he did not look like a punching bag at all today as he did under Inspector Field's command. He used all the professional skills of Scotland Yard with great vigor and soon beat several greedy gamblers so hard that they lay on the ground groaning.

But there were always some gamblers who were obsessed with money and refused to behave themselves even after being beaten with the stick. One of them held his head to protect it and yelled at Cowley, "Do you know who I am? How dare you hit me? How dare you hit me?"

"I don't give a fuck who you are!" Cowley swung his arm and hit him with a stick, immediately beating him into submission: "If you keep talking tough, I'll take you back to the station and hang you up! Son of a bitch, you're out on a business trip so late at night, do you think I'm in a good mood?"

Cowley was just about to teach this kid a lesson when he heard someone calling him from behind. He turned around and saw the carriage parked next to him. The face reflected through the window glass looked like something out of a painting.

Cowley was stunned at first, then shuddered. He quickly called on his followers to continue the pursuit, and ran to the carriage to greet them: "Sir, did our action alarm you?"

Arthur glanced at the chaotic scene. The lord, who was used to big scenes, asked calmly, "You and Charles went undercover to Leicester Square before. Was it for this?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Colly nodded vigorously, with a smile that made people's teeth ache. "Sir, you have a keen eye. Inspector Field received a tip-off a week ago that there was a large-scale gambling game in Leicester Square at night. So we secretly set up surveillance, conducted in-depth research, and repeatedly visited the place. Finally, we caught the criminals. Today, we caught them all in one fell swoop, which can be regarded as an explanation to the public!"

Arthur leaned on the cushion of the carriage, holding his chin with one hand, his eyes indifferent: "Well, is that so? The stick technique you just used was quite good. This is the first time I have seen it. Which instructor in the bureau taught you this set of moves?"

Cowley looked embarrassed and laughed dryly: "Ah, that... that is a 'controlled strike' technique I created when I was on patrol. It was inspired by the horse fighting of the Bow Street Mounted Police."

At this point, Cawley changed the subject and suddenly realized that he should show some "professionalism": "Sir, how about... I demonstrate a set of 'Three Civilized Staff Defeat Enemies' on the spot? This is one of the new duty subjects introduced by the bureau, and I am one of the first batch to pass the assessment."

After saying that, Cawley shouted behind him without hesitation: "Huett! Leave that redneck over there to someone else! Come over here and cooperate!"

"Me?" Officer Huett, who was riding on a gambler and trying to take back the gambling money from him, turned pale when he heard this: "Boss, I don't want to be hit by you again!"

"Stop talking nonsense and show it to the Jazz! If you perform well tonight, I will give you a credit later."

Only then did Huette come over with a bitter face, stand at attention at the edge of the crowd, waiting to be "defeated in one move" by him.

Cowley waved his baton and kicked forward, but before he could swing his cane, the gambler on the ground, who had been beaten up by him, seemed to have recovered and suddenly jumped up and knocked Cowley to the ground.

The gambler rode on Cowley's body, punched him, and cursed with gritted teeth: "I told you to beat me up, look who I am, I am Benjamin Disraeli, a member of the House of Commons!"

But his small physique was no match for the weather-beaten Scotland Yard officer, and after just two punches he was knocked to the ground by Cowley.

"You're Disraeli? If you're fucking Disraeli, then I'm Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington!"

While roaring, Cowley picked up the unfortunate guy who claimed to be a member of parliament and pushed him to the ground. His movements were quick, decisive and unambiguous.

But as soon as he finished speaking, the guy in the carriage who had actually seen Disraeli's "turtle fist" finally felt that something was wrong.

He looked at the man's face carefully. Although it was swollen like a stalactite in a cave, the exaggerated long nose, the slightly gorgeous black curly hair, and the coquettish red vest and green shorts...

Oh shit, it really is Benjamin!

"Wait!" Arthur's tone suddenly changed. He suddenly opened the carriage door and stepped onto the cobblestone street: "Stop it!"

Cowley was about to kick him again, but when he heard Arthur's order, he subconsciously stopped: "What's the matter, sir?"

Arthur walked forward, squatted down, and looked at the "Congressman" who had been beaten to a state where he was neither human nor ghost.

"Benjamin, are you still breathing?"

The man covered his face and coughed: "It's better than the night you were under the Tower of London, but it's limited."

Cowley was stunned, and the walking stick in his hand fell to the ground with a clang. His face, which had always been domineering in the streets, now looked as if he had seen a ghost.

"You...you are really..." He stood up suddenly and hurriedly helped Disraeli up: "Mr. Disraeli, you...why are you here?"

"Why else?" Disraeli patted the dust off his body and tremblingly took out a crumpled theater ticket from his arms: "I came to watch the script trial! Your dear Sir Arthur wanted me to give some advice on the ballet. I just passed by here and wanted to try my luck, but you almost sent me to see God!" Cowley helped him sit down and raised his hand to help him breathe: "Do you need help to call a doctor?"

Disraeli heard this, panting and said sarcastically: "Doctor? Perhaps it would be better to call Mr. William Turner. You can also hang me on the wall of Scotland Yard later."

Cawley's face turned green when he heard this: "Misunderstanding, what a misunderstanding! The light was too dim at night, and the tone of your voice was... my professional habit... my professional reaction! I'm really sorry! Mr. Congressman, please see..."

"You know what?" Disraeli gnashed his teeth and said, "Even if I'm not a member of parliament, just by looking at my outfit, you should know that I'm a gentleman, not a gambler. In the whole of London, no, in the whole of Britain, who else would be as fashionable as me, wearing green shorts to fight cocks?"

Cawley tugged at the hem of his uniform awkwardly: "Yes, yes, my eyes..."

Arthur also came up to smooth things over: "I'm sorry, Benjamin, this matter can't be entirely blamed on Cowley. Perhaps part of the blame should be placed on Director Rowan. After all, since the information about the MPs was accidentally lost at Scotland Yard, few of the new Scotland Yard police officers should know that gentlemen who like to wear red and green overalls are not to be messed with."

"Forget it!" Disraeli waved his hands impatiently. "Speaking of which, this matter cannot be entirely blamed on you. I won't delay your duty. If I run into you from Scotland Yard next time, can't I just avoid you?"

Just as Cowley was about to explain, he saw Arthur waving at him, signaling him to leave.

So he had no choice but to salute Arthur, and then joined the battle to crack down on illegal gambling activities in a disheveled manner.

Arthur took out his white gloves, dusted the steps, and sat down next to Disraeli.

Before he could say anything, Disraeli rolled his eyes.

The unhappy Jewish boy muttered, "I was beaten to the ground and you were enjoying the fun. This is simply the street version of the New Caucasus Incident."

Arthur couldn't help laughing when he heard this: "Benjamin, I..."

"Stop talking about me, me, me!" Disraeli sat on the stone steps, looking like he had lost all hope in life. "My reputation in the House of Commons is already shaky enough. If the Morning Post publishes the news 'Benjamin Disraeli caught fighting cock in green trousers' tomorrow, believe it or not, my reputation will be completely ruined!"

Arthur swore to the heavens, "I promise that this matter will never be leaked. You have to trust Scotland Yard. We still have the quality of confidentiality."

Disraeli glared at him and angrily slammed the theater ticket on Arthur's knees: "Here you go, I won't watch it! You can let Alexander dance ballet and let Charles sing soprano. I just want to sit at home tonight, wrapped in a blanket and write abusive reviews."

Seeing that he was about to give up, Arthur quickly advised: "Benjamin, this won't do. Now is a critical moment. The new play is about to be launched. If we are missing a great general like you..."

Disraeli interrupted him: "General? Have you ever seen a general being beaten on the head? Look at me! I'm done for, everything is over, that woodcutter Gladstone is going to take over! The election is coming up soon, you tell me! With my current appearance, how can you let me participate in the campaign? What will the voters think of a candidate with eyes swollen like fish bubbles?"

Arthur was about to promise to find him the best doctor in London, but before he opened his mouth he sensed something was wrong.

"Election? The election of 1832 was only a few years ago. Why is there another election?"

Disraeli rolled his eyes at him and replied angrily, "It's alright, you'll know what's going on tomorrow morning. You're so well-informed, there's no need to ask me."

Arthur was very anxious about Disraeli's words. He had to get to the bottom of it today: "Benjamin, one step slower, one step slower. The sooner we know, the sooner we can help you raise campaign funds!"

Unexpectedly, Disraeli became even more depressed after hearing this: "Raising campaign funds just for the listing. Now the authors of our "The Brit" have all the cleanest pockets. It would be great if Mrs. Sykes could help me think of a solution. How can I count on you..."

When Arthur heard this, he turned his head and looked at the wooden sign that read "Odds 1 to 100" and finally understood what was going on: "Is this what you do cockfighting for?"

Disraeli blushed. "What do you know? To win big with a small investment is an art."

Arthur pondered for a moment and said, "I'll help you find a way to raise funds for your campaign. If the situation is good, I can probably get you one thousand pounds. Even if the situation is bad, I can still get you five hundred pounds."

Disraeli was stunned. He thought Arthur was lying to him: "You finally couldn't help it and went to rob a bank?"

"It wasn't that he robbed a bank." Arthur looked at Disraeli's half-believing and half-doubting expression, and raised the corner of his mouth slightly: "But he was half-tricked and half-tricked into a gold mine."

"Oh?" Disraeli glanced at him and rubbed his swollen eyelids. "I want to hear who is so bold as to lie to you?"

Arthur pretended to sigh, "It's a long story. This afternoon, I went to talk to the Duchess of Kent."

"Which...which Duchess of Kent?" Disraeli immediately pricked up his ears.

"Who else? The one who wanted to be the regent so badly that he went crazy."

Disraeli's eyes widened: "You went to the palace?"

"To be precise, I was kept." Arthur paused, "And the treatment was good."

"How nice?"

"Eight hundred pounds a year, and since I teach several courses, I can get an additional stipend based on the hours I teach. Conroy was afraid I would quit at the last minute, so he promised to pay me six months' salary in advance."

Disraeli gasped, "Are you going to teach or marry?"

"Don't talk nonsense." Arthur patted his shoulder. "Besides, have you forgotten? I am still the Provost of the University of London, which is a position with a stable salary and generous annuity. I can discuss with the committee later to advance a quarter's salary, and then try to apply for a research subsidy..."

"Research subsidy? What name are you going to use to apply for it?"

“Just say it’s funding an experiment in political communications.”

When Disraeli heard this, he finally showed a somewhat human expression: "At the critical moment, you are still reliable, my dear Arthur!"

"If you say so, I have no objection." Arthur took out a small notebook from his arms, took out a pen from his pocket and began to write a letter: "One letter to Conroy, one letter to the school board... The first payment can be transferred out within five days..."

Seeing this, Disraeli was too embarrassed to be angry anymore: "You were at Kensington Palace this afternoon. No wonder you didn't know that His Majesty the King had dissolved Parliament."

With a snap, the pen in Arthur's hand broke.

"What did you say?!"

(End of this chapter)