The Shadow of Great Britain

”Look.” The young man with the monocle sneered, ”This is the new spectacle our esteemed Sir Arthur Hastings has prepared for us. Nowadays, even watching the bustling scene at the docks requires police isolation.”

His friend chimed in softly, ”Isn’t it because of that Police Bill Draft? Haven’t you read the newspapers? If they really write all those regulations into law, perhaps even having tea at home will need police notification.”

As soon as the words fell, deliberately amplified hisses immediately came from around, as if they wanted the police to hear their discussions.

Those hisses started as limited releases but quickly spread like ignited sparks, transforming from ”polite” reminders into jeering the police force.

The Police Superintendent on horseback clearly heard them, but he did not show any anger, merely keeping a stern face as he looked towards the crowd, as if reminding them to maintain order.

After all, experienced officers know these hisses don’t signify the citizens are angry enough to resist; in most cases, they’re just seizing the opportunity to express a frivolous dissatisfaction, a typical middle-class rebellion enjoying protest rights from a safe distance.

But the few newly recruited officers seemed somewhat uneasy, their faces turning red then white, almost wishing they could find a hole to hide in.

Since joining, they’ve never been much welcomed on the streets of London.

Nowadays, the nation is even debating whether they are ”nightwatchmen of a civilized society” or ”potential tools of tyranny.”

Seeing their pitiful appearance, a lady couldn’t help but find it hard to watch, ”The hissing is too rude, isn’t it? The police are just here to do their duty.”

The rotund gentleman beside her immediately retorted, ”Ma’am, haven’t you seen that draft? At this rate, it won’t be long before they even decide how long we can stand at the docks.”

His words immediately incited a round of laughter.

Amidst the lingering mockery, rumbling wheels suddenly sounded from the other end of the street.

A sharp-eyed gentleman exclaimed first, ”Is it coming again?!”

The crowd immediately grew restless; some stood on tiptoe, others hooked their arms over their companions’ shoulders, and some quickly put the once-quelled indignation back on their faces.

As the carriage turned the corner, the crowd already saw the emblem on its side door.

The pitch-black door was embedded with a polished metal nameplate inscribed with ”METROPOLITAN POLICE OFFICE.”

It couldn’t be more obvious.

The next moment, an even louder bout of hissing erupted from the crowd.

”Hiss!!!!!!”

This hissing was no longer in jest but carried a sense of finally catching a handle.

Several youths even deliberately raised their newspapers high; if anyone inside the carriage was looking out, they would likely see those lines in The Times emphasizing the dangers of police power expansion.

However, the hissing and the crowd’s commotion did not affect the carriage’s normal progress; it steadily stopped by the roadside.

The leading Police Superintendent, upon seeing this, immediately dismounted.

After dismounting, he first raised a hand to straighten his police cap, then instinctively used his glove to wipe the badge on his chest, before finally striding swiftly to the car door, standing at attention, and saluting.

With his actions, the crowd’s hissing suddenly seemed choked, rapidly contracting.

All eyes were on that car door, curious about who exactly had come today.

The coachman reached to open the door, first appearing was a polished riding boot, followed by neatly pressed trousers, an excellently made dark wool coat...

The sound of the riding boot touching the cobblestones was light, ordinary beyond compare.

Yet, this sound seemed to strike the foreheads of all present citizens, suddenly causing explosive hissing at the scene.

”Is it him?” someone in the crowd first whispered this sentence.

Immediately, several faces leaned towards each other, their eyes filled with excitement, doubt, and barely concealed schadenfreude.

”Arthur Hastings himself?”

”It looks about seventy percent like the caricatures.”

”Judging by appearances... it really is him.”

Several ladies upon hearing these words couldn’t help but glance back.

They weren’t very concerned with Arthur’s policies, merely wanting to see for themselves how this young officer, described by Fleet Street as both dangerous and somewhat excessively handsome, actually looked.

”Oh my! He looks unbelievably young.”

”Exactly, a young man in his twenties, able to make the entire Parliament argue like that?”

The rotund gentleman snorted, ”Ladies, please note, tyrants often begin their careers young.”

Those dock workers busy in the back didn’t quite follow the middle-class humor, but watching the scene, they couldn’t help but mumble along.

”So this is the guy causing all those big shots to keep bickering?”

”Doesn’t look like someone who can carry three sacks of burlap at once.”

Amid the dockside’s intertwining of jests, whispers, cautious glances, and undisguised hostility, suddenly, a deep horn sounded from the river.

That sound seemed especially abrupt in the winter fog, causing everyone to involuntarily look up.

”Here it comes!” someone shouted, his voice breaking with excitement, ”It’s them! The Gottingen Seven Gentlemen!”

”Portrait of the Gottingen Seven Gentlemen” painted by German artist Carl Rode in 1837