The Shadow of Great Britain

Of course, being a fishmonger is better than being a pig-boy.

Whether in British fairy tales or songs, pig-boys are often portrayed as crude, uneducated, and living at the very bottom of society.

In rural areas, adult pig-boys are virtually non-existent; even among children, being a pig-boy is typically the lowest-ranking job a farm can offer.

There is a saying in the English countryside: kids who take care of pigs will grow up to be impolite.

As it turns out, the old saying is quite true.

”We... we won’t disturb you any longer.”

As soon as the words were spoken, the apprentices scurried away, their footsteps filled with panic, running helter-skelter.

They ran half a street away, and you could still hear someone muttering under his breath: ”Damn! Ran into a real menace!”

”Don’t come back to Holborn these days! If he really knows the boss, we’re finished!”

Arthur watched the scattering rascals, hummed softly, and put away the newspaper, losing his interest in enjoying the afternoon.

This morning, he had come to Holborn to negotiate with the London City Government about incorporating the Financial City Police Team under Scotland Yard’s jurisdiction.

However, as always, the London City Government was unwilling to transfer jurisdiction of this police team to Scotland Yard, even if the bill had already gained the support of the Whig Party and the Conservative Party.

But the resistance from the London Municipal Authority was hardly surprising because these people have always been overly sensitive about their privileges, even maintaining them stubbornly in situations clearly detrimental to public interest.

The Financial City Police Team, while not large, has over five hundred personnel when you count both the daytime officers and night patrols, with annual policing expenses exceeding forty-two thousand pounds.

Yet, compared to Scotland Yard’s modern structure, the Financial City Police Team retains a considerable degree of Medieval remnants, as aside from paying the patrol force, there are 47 district deacons who can annually receive salaries from 50 to 100 pounds.

Moreover, the weekly salary of Financial City patrolmen of 9 to 25 shillings is far below Scotland Yard’s standard of 19 shillings a week plus a two-uniform allowance.

As for welfare guarantees, neither the Financial City nor Scotland Yard police currently have pensions, but with the new Police Bill passed, though pensions for Scotland Yard officers aren’t assured, Sir Arthur has guaranteed the team they will receive state protection if injured on duty.

Furthermore, Scotland Yard now offers housing subsidies, allowing all unmarried officers to rent government-subsidized housing for 1 shilling a week, while married officers can make special leasing arrangements with the government to pay extra for a larger space based on their needs.

Behind the steady construction of Scotland Yard’s welfare system, the entry standards for the police force have become increasingly standardized and transparent.

Scotland Yard’s recruitment standards are strictly limited to: under 35 years old, with a height of at least five feet eight inches.

This standard even exceeds the recruitment standards of most Army regiments, where the typical height requirement is set at 5 feet 5 inches, only raised to 5 feet 8 inches for the Guard Infantry and Dragon Cavalry units.

Within the Army, the only units that can consistently exceed Scotland Yard’s height standards are likely those frequently tasked with ceremonial duties, requiring 5 feet 10 inches for the Royal Guard Cavalry and 5 feet 9 inches for the Coldstream Guards Regiment.

What?

You ask about the Royal Navy?

They don’t need tall guys; nimble monkeys that can easily climb up and down the masts are the Navy Department’s preferred choice. Ordinary seamen only need to reach 5 feet 2 inches to qualify, even the Marine Corps only requires 5 feet 5 inches.

As if sincerity manifests reality, just as Arthur thought about this, the Navy Department’s ”monkey” found his way to him.

The small bread stall at Holborn Street Corner was just lifting its oilcloth, and though this scent might not be enticing to regular Londoners, it acts like a summons to some. Before Arthur realized what was happening, a familiar figure had darted out from around the corner, almost knocking over a girl playing hoop rolling.

Eld Carter, the Second-class Clerk who’s been loafing around the Navy Department for years, was now rushing toward the stall with a speed totally unbecoming of a civil servant.

He had just bought some stale bread, looked up, and saw Arthur. Eld blinked, then rubbed his eyes: ”Arthur, is that you? Why are you here?”

Arthur glanced at him casually: ”I was about to ask the same of you; Holborn isn’t exactly the closest place to the Navy Department.”

Eld took a bite of the stale bread, which immediately reminded him of the days spent on a fantastical journey aboard the Beagle.

This hardworking public servant from the Navy Department earnestly exclaimed: ”Isn’t the annual budget about to be finalized? The accounting department is here to audit, and as the second officer of the Hydrographic Office, I have no obligation to personally explain why last year’s travel expenses were so high.”

Receiving the stale bread handed by Eld, Arthur frowned and took a bite. It tasted no better than the ’supreme enjoyment’ he once had at Druiysk: ”But you didn’t have to run all the way to Holborn. Shouldn’t you be enjoying your... how should I say? Cultural experience at Leicester Square?”