shadow of britain

Chapter 790 Inviting Gauss and Weber to London? Absolutely unnecessary!
Following the Tower of London riots, I viewed this crisis as the second major challenge of my life.

—Arthur Hastings, *Fifty Years of Life*

Around the world, people from different countries and cultures always have some traditional remedies passed down through generations.

In China, it's common to have a bowl of ginger and brown sugar water, or mung bean soup, or kudzu flower soup.

In the Ottoman Empire, they preferred honey water infused with mint, and occasionally, if a drunkard was in particularly serious condition, they would use dates with olive oil for an enema.

The common methods in Germany and Russia are pickled cabbage soup or scrambled black bread added to light beer and boiled into a pot of hot rye bread soup to help with hangovers.

In Britain, if we're talking about the most representative hangover cure, then without a doubt, it's beef tea.

So-called beef tea is not actually a type of tea, but a beverage made by simmering lean beef in water for several hours and then filtering out the broth.

Beef tea has a mild flavor with a slightly sweet taste mixed with the smell of blood, which is why it is often regarded by the British as a good remedy for refreshing the mind, relieving hangovers, and replenishing energy.

Of course, there are more than one way to cure a hangover in Britain, and beef tea is just one of the most elegant ones.

Just as old BJ had many intricacies, old London also had many intricacies.

True old Londoners would never stoop to drinking beef tea or alcohol; these old drunks usually prefer "dog hair therapy."

The story of the dog hair therapy originates from an ancient British folk remedy for dog bites: applying a piece of dog hair to the wound. The underlying principle is similar to the Chinese proverb: "Where a poisonous snake dwells, there is an antidote within seven steps."

The "dog hair therapy" for hangovers involves using a small amount of alcohol to relieve the hangover. Old Londoners, if they have a hangover, usually drink a wheat beer or gin in the morning; they say it works remarkably well.

When Arthur was patrolling Scotland Yard in his early years, he often saw drunkards taking cold baths in the Thames early in the morning to sober up. After bathing, they would chew on a small piece of charcoal. According to the drunkards, they did this because magazines said that charcoal could help them absorb "toxins" in their stomachs. This can be considered a relatively new method of sobering up that has emerged in the last one or two decades.

Of course, it would be inhumane to push Elder and Dumas into the Thames to sober up in the middle of the night.

More importantly, it's easy to push it down, but it would be difficult to retrieve it in the dark.

They could ask the innkeeper for some freshly made charcoal, and beef tea was also an option on their regular menu, so it saved Arthur and his companions a lot of trouble.

A big bowl of beef tea, paired with a charcoal stick that's just been roasted and is still sparkling from the fire—that's what it means to know how to eat, that's what it means to be particular.

Elder leaned back in his chair, looking like a pelican just dragged out of the river, half of his hair sticking to his forehead from the steam, or like a crab just released from its cage, his face as red as could be.

He held the empty beef tea bowl, his gaze sliding from the empty bowl to the charcoal stick on the table, and then from the charcoal stick to the maid blowing on the fire by the stove.

He paused, then smacked his lips, looking as if he were appraising a fine Havana cigar.

As for Dumas, the fat man's situation was clearly much worse than Elder's.

This great French patriot initially refused to drink the Englishman's beef tea, until his stomach attempted to revolt for the sixth time, intending to seize the "Bastille" located in his throat. After persisting in his resistance but still unable to win, just before his internal trial and the impending execution, Dumas finally had no choice but to accept this "foreign intervention."

After drinking a bowl of beef tea, his illness was cured, and Dumas fell fast asleep on the table, unable to be woken up no matter how hard he tried.

Fortunately, his friends didn't seem to care much about the drunkard's loud snoring. Arthur, Wheatstone, and Louis continued chatting as usual.

Wheatstone's biggest concern was Leopold's commitment to build telegraph lines in Belgium. This was the first time the English Electromagnetic Telegraph Company had ever received such a formal contract since its inception, and it was a government order worth tens of thousands of pounds right off the bat.

Although the Belgian government couldn't afford to pay the full amount in cash for the order, they were willing to use Belgian government bonds and government-held shares in the railway company as collateral, and provide the English Electromagnetic Telegraph Company with certain government subsidies and tax breaks. For the still relatively small Imperial Publishing Group, this wasn't an immediate sum of money, but the turnaround on paper was enough to catch the eye of the previously hesitant investors in the City of London.

Moreover, given the close relationship between the UK and Belgium, as well as Belgium's future credit and development prospects, both Belgian government bonds and Belgian railway company stocks have long been regarded by the City of London as a high-quality financial asset and investment project.

This is why British companies that were granted permission to build railways in Belgium did not even need guarantees from the Belgian government, a stark contrast to investments in India or South America.

Therefore, even if Arthur and his group are eager to cash out, they are not worried about finding buyers.

“This is a godsend!” Wheatstone was practically dancing with excitement. He was so thrilled that he forgot that the friend in front of him, who now seemed so endearing, had nearly sent him to the hellish Huang Chunju Street just half an hour earlier. “I’ve waited all these years for this opportunity! Once this order is fulfilled, everyone will understand what a magnificent invention the telegraph is, and what its inventor, Mr. Charles Wheatstone, is…”

“Don’t get too excited yet.” Before Wheatstone could finish speaking, Arthur poured cold water on his enthusiasm: “Because I was worried that Leopold would reject my suggestion, I quoted the Belgian government £240 per mile.”

“240 pounds?” Wheatstone pondered for a moment, thinking he had misheard the number. “Are you sure 240 pounds is a thin profit margin? Our telegraph line construction cost in London is only 160-170 pounds per mile. A price of 240 pounds is enough for us to get a 50% gross profit. Besides, didn’t you say that Belgium might offer government subsidies and tax breaks for telegraph construction?”

Upon hearing this, Arthur showed no sign of relief. Instead, he slowly shook his head and gave Wheatstone an economics lesson on the spot: "Mowries, Charles, that's just Mowries. You need to understand that this is completely different from how much we can actually bring home. Telegraph construction and selling phonographs are two different things."

Wheatstone paused for a moment, then instinctively sat up straighter.

Although he made his fortune selling phonographs, he wasn't really a businessman at all. Over the years, he had devoted himself to electricity, magnets, and induction coils. Although he could barely read account books in recent years, he was still not used to being meticulous about every little detail.

However, we can't really blame him, because selling phonographs is essentially selling technology, and there are far fewer factors to consider compared to infrastructure construction.

Arthur explained to him point by point: “Although the cable itself costs £170 per mile, that is the most basic, lowest-spec, pure London city line. It doesn’t cross rivers, doesn’t need to consider the difficulty of construction due to terrain, and doesn’t have a long-term maintenance plan budget. However, our project in Belgium is to make a splash and build a demonstration project that can represent the English Electromagnetic Telegraph Company. Naturally, we can’t just take the cost of the cable into account.”

At this point, Arthur paused, his fingers tapping lightly on the table in time with Alexandre Dumas's snores: "What we need are standardized relay stations along the route, reinforced corrosion-resistant copper cables, supporting overseas offices, a professional Belgian operations team to be trained, and two teams of maintenance personnel on standby. All of these must be included in the cost. In addition, our project supervisors and technicians will be stationed in Belgium for at least a year, with accommodation and transportation costs extra. Adding all of this in, a 50% gross profit seems optimistic, but the net profit will probably be less than 15%."

Having already organized the event once, Louis couldn't help but recall his failed Strasbourg Restoration upon hearing this: "That's the truth, labor costs can be quite high. Moreover, once things are actually underway, there will be many unexpected areas where additional budgets will be needed. In my experience, you should leave at least 20% of the budget as a buffer to allow you more flexibility."

“And…” Arthur looked up at Wheatstone, “Even disregarding the 20% margin Louis mentioned, and assuming the most optimistic scenario where net profit reaches 15%, you still have to consider the difficulty of liquidating that 15%. Belgium can’t pay in cash; they’re using government bonds and railway stocks as collateral. While these are highly liquid, do you think the people in the City will just buy them at face value? Don’t be naive, Charles. They’ll only ever buy collateral at the discount you’d pay if you needed the money urgently.”

Wheatstone was speechless for a moment, and the joy on his face gradually faded. After listening to Arthur's analysis, he became increasingly anxious: "So you mean? We're not taking this order? But, but this is our first... our first official government order!"

“Of course we have to take this order. But precisely because this is our first order, we can’t afford to fail.” Arthur said, emphasizing each word. “You are a Fellow of the Royal Society and the company’s chief scientist, but I am not; I am a director of the company. So, Charles, I order you to reduce our costs as much as possible without compromising the quality of the project. We can accept not making a profit this time, but we absolutely cannot create financial risks for the company.”

Seeing Arthur's utter shamelessness, Wheatstone's stubborn temper flared up again. He glared at Arthur, slammed his fist on the table, and said, "What do you mean by 'reduce costs without affecting the quality of the project'? Don't you know that's a grammatically incorrect sentence? And besides, while I am a scientist, what about you? Aren't you? Who was the first person in our university's history to receive an honorary doctorate in electromagnetism? Is your doctorate certificate fake? You'll have to be in charge of cost reduction and efficiency improvement, and technological advancements, with me. Of course, if you don't want to be involved, then go to Göttingen and poach Gauss and Weber. Otherwise, I can't guarantee I'll come up with any good ideas before the telegraph line is built."

Upon hearing the names Gauss and Weber, Arthur's confidence immediately waned. Simply inviting Gauss and Weber to work for the English Electromagnetic Telegraph Company wouldn't have been a problem, but recently the two of them had written to Arthur to discuss the latest developments in European natural philosophy this year.

In particular, Gauss praised in his letter the suggestion Arthur had given him years ago: to determine whether we live in a standard Euclidean geometric space by measuring whether the angle between two stars in the sky and the Earth is 180 degrees.

After two years of repeated measurements and calculations, Gauss finally came to a terrifying conclusion—the angle between the two stars and the Earth is not 180 degrees, and the world we live in is a non-Euclidean geometric space.

However, because this conclusion was so shocking, Gauss first questioned the accuracy of the observations at the Göttingen Observatory.

Although the observed result is not 180 degrees, the deviation is not far. Therefore, Gauss's final conclusion is: with the current observational precision, I cannot prove that Euclidean geometry is invalid, but I also cannot prove that it is absolutely true.

He wrote a special letter to Arthur, mainly to ask for the opinion of this young genius.

Realizing he had made a huge mistake, Arthur naturally didn't reply. Moreover, if he ever saw Gauss again, he planned to blame the "missing Gauss letter" on the Royal Mail's inefficiency and frequent mail loss.

Arthur coughed lightly to cover up his lapse in composure, having just been lost in thought about Gauss's letter.

“You’re right, Charles.” He suddenly changed his tone, as if the “I command you” he had just said had not come from his mouth: “Since you value efficiency and quality so much, why don’t you take your telegraph machine apart more carefully? Let’s start with… let’s start with the number of wires.”

Wheatstone immediately became alert: "Wires? What do you mean? Do you intend to transmit five signals using only three wires? You think I haven't tried it? That would drastically reduce communication efficiency and make translation prone to errors. Cutting corners like this will ruin our reputation. Who will hire us to install telegraph lines in the future?"

Wheatstone-Cook five-needle telegraph machine

“I didn’t mean three,” Arthur said slowly. “I meant one.”

Wheatstone nearly spat out his tea, and even Alexandre Dumas's snoring paused for a moment because of it.

He stared at Arthur in disbelief: "A wire? Are you crazy? How can the telegraph machine work?"

Arthur smiled slightly, as if he had already anticipated Wheatstone's reaction: "Charles, your telegraph machine has twenty-six letters, right?"

“Of course.” Wheatstone nodded. “Twenty-six letters correspond to five interlocking hands. Although it’s not very intuitive, we’ve already trained a group of operators, and proficiency can be developed.”

“That’s right. But the problem is precisely this… Have you considered that Belgians don’t speak English at all?” Arthur put down his teacup and said, “Walloons speak French, and Flemish speak Dutch. Your five-pin telegraph machine with its twenty-six letters of the alphabet will be completely unusable in Belgium.”

Wheatstone paused for a moment. He had considered the language issue before, but their business had never truly expanded beyond Britain. After all, who would have thought that the English Electromagnetic Telegraph Company's first major venture would be in Belgium, a country where three languages ​​are spoken?

"So you mean we need to rebuild a French alphabet telegraph machine?"

“What’s the point of making just one French telegraph machine? We can’t possibly build a telegraph machine specifically for every country. French, German, Dutch, Italian… a telegraph machine isn’t a steam printing press; you can’t just change the mold and call it a day.” Arthur said, “Our first order was in Belgium, which was a wake-up call for us. I think we should be thinking about how to completely abandon the five-pin design, not how to go from five pins to four pins.”

Whistler thought Arthur was making fun of him again, so he rolled his eyes: "Easy for you to say? You have your own ideas?"

Louis also found the idea somewhat absurd: "Are you planning to reinvent a language?"

“Exactly.” Arthur nodded. “I don’t need to build another alphabetic telegraph machine. What I need is a telegraph machine that doesn’t rely on letters. A machine that can transmit any information using only one signal, a magnetic needle, or even just a single wire.”

Wheatstone scoffed: "If you don't use letters, how do you plan to let the receiver know what's written on the message?"

Upon hearing this, Arthur simply raised a finger to his lips, signaling Wheatstone and Louis to be quiet.

They both thought something unexpected had happened, so they stopped talking and looked around suspiciously.

Unexpectedly, after looking around, they found nothing. The only annoying thing was probably Dumas's incessant snoring.

One is long, one is short, one is light, and one is heavy.

"What the hell? What's wrong?"

The two of them looked at Arthur.

To everyone's surprise, Arthur simply smiled and pointed at Dumas: "Did you hear that? That's exactly what I wanted."

“You mean Alexander?” Louis followed Arthur’s gesture, still completely bewildered. “Of course I know he’s snoring, but what does that have to do with the telegraph machine? Are you planning to stuff him into that metal box?”

Arthur chuckled softly, "You just asked me how to let the receiver understand the message without using letters. Aren't I demonstrating that to you now?"

“A demonstration?” Louis frowned. “But he didn’t say anything, he just… um…”

As they were talking, Alexandre Dumas suddenly sneezed loudly, followed by a mumbled French phrase: "Vive la Révolution (Long live the revolution)..."

Although Alexandre Dumas's words were vague, Louis immediately added: "Mais oui, c'est le peuple qui gagne toujours (Yes, in the end, it is always the people who win)."

As soon as he said this, even Louis himself was a little amused and exasperated. These past few days, he and Alexandre Dumas had been discussing the fate of France all the time, to the point that he had developed a conditioned reflex to it.

“Look,” Arthur spread his hands, “did you hear his voice? He didn’t even finish a sentence, but you instinctively understood what he meant. Why? Because you understand the rhythm, the pitch, the pauses. The key isn’t the letters, it’s the rhythm. Just like when we listen to music, we don’t need to look at the sheet music to hum the melody.”

“You mean…” Wheatstone said thoughtfully, “there’s no need to use a pointer to point to letters, for example, a needle flashes once, pauses, flashes twice, pauses again… to represent letters and information? That way, we really don’t need to lay five wires…”

Before Whistler could finish speaking, he heard Elder yawn beside him. While Arthur and the others were chatting, he had taken a nice nap.

Elder smacked his lips, as if trying to suppress the lingering taste of beef tea and charcoal ash in his throat: "What did you just say? A wire? Rhythm? Dancing electric needles? No wonder it's the weird stuff University of London came up with. It sounds just like the bragging Lord Elfenstone gave me last night."

When Arthur heard this, he thought the drunkard was just rambling again, but Elder's next words made his heart jump to his throat: "That bastard actually said he received a personal letter from Princess Victoria."

(Two more chapters to go)
(End of this chapter)