The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 1677 - 52: The Web Weaver, Hastings (2)

Langworth blushed a little: "I can’t lie, so I must admit that the latter is more true. Sir, I must say, I previously misunderstood you."

Arthur was noncommittal and merely said, "If you mean the editorial ’Gunshots Under the Tower of London,’ I actually think you wrote it quite well. Especially the last sentence: the man once hailed as Britain’s finest officer is ultimately just a shooter using the public as his target."

Langworth’s expression changed slightly; he hadn’t expected Arthur to remember that sentence word for word: "I was young and impetuous, and my judgment might have been a bit biased on some details... but thinking back now, there were casualties during that riot, yet... I didn’t understand the pressure you were under at the time."

"I don’t blame you." Arthur smiled, stepping forward to pat his shoulder: "You only did what a journalist should do; you truthfully described what you saw, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. Just the fact that you reported based on what you saw already makes you better than many journalists."

Arthur turned his head to glance at the bustling crowd around them: "It’s noisy at the station entrance; if you ask me, we should find a quieter place to sit. Just as well, you can tell me in detail about what you and Sir David did in the Caucasus and what the suffering Chechens currently need."

"I was just thinking about bringing this up..." Langworth nodded, surveying his surroundings: "But at this time, finding a quiet place will be difficult."

They spoke as they walked west along the stone path of the station.

As Langworth had anticipated, the three cafes at the street corner were already packed with merchants, travelers, and postmen, even the small round tables by the street were occupied by thick coats and oilcloth umbrellas. Nearby breakfast stalls were even more crowded; salty beef and chopped onions were being fried in iron pans, steaming hot tea kettles were hissing, and vendors were shouting incessantly. Meanwhile, four or five apprentice-looking young men were jostling for the last pancake in the pan.

Langworth glanced at the jam-packed driveway: "Just a few more steps forward, we might find a public carriage with available seats..."

But upon turning his head, he realized Arthur had disappeared.

Just as Langworth was searching everywhere, he suddenly heard someone calling him from across the street.

"Mr. Langworth, there are empty seats over here!"

Following Arthur’s voice, Langworth looked and saw a low stone building tightly adjacent to the station’s wall, with no receptionist or doorman at the entrance, only a sleepy male employee sitting under the porch with a small oilcloth-covered table beside him.

At this time of day, finding one or two empty seats near the station was already remarkable, and finding such a deserted place was simply unimaginable.

"What kind of business is this place doing?" Langworth muttered, squeezing through the crowded street, his gaze falling on the sign above the door: "England Electromagnetic Telegraph Company? Is this... selling scientific instruments?"

Arthur, already smiling, opened the door for him as Langworth stepped up the stone stairs: "It’s not selling scientific instruments; it’s a telegraph station."

"A telegraph station?" Langworth raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by this new term: "Is this a place that uses electromagnetism to write newspapers?"

"That’s too romantic," Arthur chuckled: "Initially, this was designed for sending messages to Scotland Yard, but after I left Scotland Yard, it was sold to the England Electromagnetic Telegraph Company, which converted it for civilian use. But ultimately, not many truly know it exists."

Arthur explained the wondrous uses of the telegraph to Langworth, which unsurprisingly piqued the journalist’s interest.

"So, this thing... can send messages from one end to the other without relying on horses or ships?"

"Precisely, from the east end of London to the west end." Arthur added with a smile: "Setting up telegraph lines is extremely costly; just establishing a network in London has emptied my friend Mr. Wheatstone’s pockets. Currently, the England Electromagnetic Telegraph Company not only lacks the capability to cross the English Channel, but also can’t connect Paris and Constantinople."

Langworth sighed regretfully: "That’s truly a pity. If this could connect Constantinople, I wouldn’t have to spend over half a month rushing back to London..."

Click—click-click—click-click-click—

The telegraph machine suddenly made an erratic sound, like steel needles piercing the silence, pricking Langworth’s nerves one by one.

"Hm? What’s this? Is someone sending a message?" Instinctively, Langworth glanced at the drowsy dispatcher at the door: "Sir, over here..."

Unexpectedly, Arthur reached out to stop him: "Forget it, don’t call him."

He winked at Langworth and said with a smile: "Since we’re free, let me teach you how to use this thing."

Langworth was indeed curious about this new gadget, and since Arthur was willing to teach, he was naturally eager to see something novel: "You know how to use the telegraph machine?"

"Of course," Arthur said, not without pride: "To be honest, the coding system used by the England Electromagnetic Telegraph Company actually has some of my design in it."

Arthur paced unhurriedly to the telegraph machine, his fingers lightly brushing the paper tape it spat out: "This code was originally exclusive to Scotland Yard; some call it the Hastings Code, but its formal name should be the Police Intelligence Code. It was jointly improved by Mr. Wheatstone and me. Though it was scarcely used, the code translations are all engraved in my mind."