The Shadow of Great Britain

446: Chapter 248: Hastings-type (5K6)_3 446: Chapter 248: Hastings-type (5K6)_3 Arthur couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows three times upon hearing this, “What do you mean?

Before Bertrand and I start fighting, you want us to deal with a couple of crocodiles or lions?”

Disraeli burst into hearty laughter and replied, “We don’t need to be that realistic.

After all, if everything were to be realistic, not only would we have to release a few lions, but we’d also have to portray the scene of you two being favored by noblewomen.

I doubt the fee that the audience pays would warrant Paris Sword Saint and Scotland Yard’s Wellington to go that far.

Just having you two shout ‘We are free’ should be thrilling enough for the audience.”

Arthur, frowning, leaned back in his chair and asked, “Benjamin, are Bertrand and I fighting a swordsmanship competition or WWE?”

“WWE?” Disraeli asked, puzzled.

“What’s that?”

Arthur replied, “It’s like putting two young and strong guys into an octagonal cage to put on a show.”

“Octagonal cage?” Disraeli pondered for a moment.

“Arthur, you might actually be onto a good idea.”

Arthur asked, “Are you planning to have us prepare some props too?”

Disraeli, unconcerned, retorted, “Even if I didn’t mention it, weren’t you prepared anyway?”

Arthur took a sip of tea, “Benjamin, that is top secret.

Moreover, I feel that having a cage as a barrier might interfere with the trajectory of bullets flying from the stands.”

Disraeli stood up and, leaning on the coffee table for emphasis, argued, “Arthur, are you doubting Alexander’s marksmanship?

He’s a damn French artilleryman!”

Arthur shook his head gently, “It’s not that I don’t trust Alexander, I don’t trust you.

Did you forget about your scandalous shooting practice yesterday?

One gunshot, the target was unharmed, but a poor eagle fell from the sky.

I just hope you don’t hit Jesus or God on the day of the match, because that wouldn’t be something you could explain away with a simple ‘We are free’.”

Agares, lounging on the sofa, yawned at these words, “Hit Jesus?

Why are Jewish people always doing this kind of thing?

But times change, and I suppose it’s reasonable for nails to turn into bullets.”

Disraeli, still not giving up, insisted, “Arthur, think about it seriously.

You even dared to schedule Mr.

Chopin’s piano debut after the swordfight.

Isn’t that proof enough of your confidence in victory?

I can’t believe you are truly resolved to die fighting Monsieur Bertrand.

Surely, you have some secret weapon up your sleeve that you haven’t disclosed, right?”

Seeing his insistence, Arthur just extended his hand towards the Prime Minister and rubbed his fingers together.

Disraeli, seeing this gesture, clenched his teeth and exclaimed with heartfelt pain, “Fine, more money, isn’t that what you want?

I’ll go back and negotiate with Lionel about the profit-sharing ratio.

Although Lionel and I are the organizers and financiers of the match, you are putting your life on the line, after all.

I do owe it to my old friend to fight for an additional five percent of the gate receipts for you.”

At these words, Arthur nodded slightly, “Since you put it that way, it would be petty of me to keep arguing against the cage.

But I feel that just caging us is still not enough; for the audience, such sensory stimulation is far from sufficient.”

“So you can go even lower?” Disraeli’s hand which was wiping sweat with his handkerchief suddenly stopped; he slammed the handkerchief down onto the coffee table, “Damn it, I knew you were certain of your victory this time.”

Arthur spoke up, “Do you still want to make this competition more successful?”

“Of course, I do,” Disraeli asked, “Arthur, if you have any brilliant ideas, just speak up.

After all, Lionel has already placed a substantial bet on this competition, so he probably won’t mind the additional expense.”

Arthur took a journal of the “Royal Society” out of the desk drawer and said, “As everyone knows, I am a researcher in the field of electromagnetism.

So, I think it makes sense to add an element of electromagnetism to the duel.

Especially on a dim starlit London night, the release of several bolts of lightning coupled with thick smoke would definitely make the stage effects stand out.”

Upon hearing this, Disraeli was also somewhat intimidated by Arthur; he paused and then asked, “Are you suggesting your killer move is to strike Bertrand dead with lightning?

But I must say, your idea does sound quite good.

The tricky part is, how do we convince Zeus and Odin?

Are you familiar with them?”

Agares, who was yawning, scratched his chin and said upon hearing this, “I do have a bit of a connection, although the success rate is not high, and the price might be more than you can afford.

But then again, it’s no big deal, Arthur, isn’t there a Jew around?

If they are not willing, just have your good friend Benjamin nail them to the octagon cage.”

Arthur glanced at the Red Devil and said, “Benjamin, there’s no need to appeal to Zeus and Odin.

It’s just a few lightning bolts; asking Mr.

Faraday would be enough.

He has plenty of cutting-edge discharge rods and hand-cranked generators.

On the day of the competition, you can get a few large iron rods to work with, and that will be enough to create a dazzling stage effect.

I guarantee it will surprise the audience.”

“Is it really that miraculous?”

Disraeli was skeptical of Arthur’s words, but he did not directly oppose him, after all, when it comes to electromagnetism, Arthur was the authority.

No sooner had he spoken did a knock on the office door suddenly sound.

Louis Bonaparte opened the door with a young American behind him, his cheeks flushed with a sailor’s red.

“Chief, Mr.

Colt says he has something to discuss with you.”

Colt entered the office, and the straightforward American adjusted his hat and without any further ado, took a leather gun holster from his waist bag and slapped it onto Arthur’s desk, “Mr.

Hastings, although the performance of this gun has not yet reached the state I would like, since you’re in a hurry, you’ll have to make do with it for now.

Even though it is just a prototype, I can assure you that its effective range and convenience have already surpassed or at least matched that of the Colt flintlock revolver of Mr.

Dumas.”

Arthur picked up the brown leather gun holster, took out the pistol within, the grain of the rosewood grip smooth like milk poured into a coffee cup, while the silver gun cylinder attached to the grip was thoughtfully engraved with the dazzling St.

Edward’s Crown Badge, just like on Arthur’s shoulder.

On the hammer of the firearm, Colt had chosen the perfume bottle design agreed upon with Arthur, except this perfume bottle hammer was also quite ornate, perhaps because it was specially ordered from the factory, and this part was made to resemble a Scottish Yard officer holding a constable’s cutlass.

Arthur leaned back in his office chair, aimed the gun towards the sunlight coming through the window, and the silver-white cylinder shone, reflecting his eyes and face tinged with a slight red glow.

Arthur couldn’t help but exclaim, “Truly a masterpiece, Samuel, you have not only brought me good news but also a pleasant surprise.”

Disraeli was also captivated by the beautifully designed firearm and said, “This gun is much cooler than Alexander’s.

His treasured Year XIII Republic may not even come close to it.

Mr.

Colt, what is the name of this gun?”

Colt, hearing the compliments from the two men, simply puffed out his chest with pride and said, “Gentlemen, please allow me to proudly introduce to you the latest masterpiece from master gunsmith Samuel Colt, the .55 caliber M1831 Hastings Custom Model Revolving Percussion Pistol!”