The Shadow of Great Britain

No one showed any great mercy; it was simply the usual way things were done in British parishes—save wherever possible.

Lewis was housed in a small loft at the back of the printing press. Each day, he was responsible for moving paper and washing the printing molds, his fingers cut so many times he couldn’t remember, but he dared not complain then because there were three other children younger than him in the loft who didn’t even have beds, only burlap sacks to sleep on.

No one cared about their names, nor did anyone remember where they came from, as if they were just some stray cats thrown into the city, whether they lived or died didn’t matter.

Then, when he was twelve, the printing press closed down.

The owner fled with money before creditors came calling, and the children were driven out onto the street.

At that time, Lewis had only half a penny in his pocket.

What could you do with half a penny?

You couldn’t buy a hot meal, nor could you afford a bed.

That night, Lewis nearly froze to death.

That was the first time he truly realized that he was the most worthless type of person in the world.

However, fate sometimes likes to play jokes.

Early the next morning, he was awakened by the noise from a newsboy.

The boy was young but cursed with great vigor, waving a crumpled stack of newspapers in his hand: "Extra, extra! Foreign Secretary is dead! Breaking news, Foreign Secretary Lord Castlereagh has died! Suicide scandal! Suicide scandal! Read all the details for just one penny!"

Lewis stared at the newspaper for so long the newsboy thought he wanted to freeload and yelled at him: "One penny to see it all, don’t think about freeloading!"

Lewis took out the only half penny he had, only to be scorned by the boy: "Half a penny? Then you can only listen to me read it!"

With that, the boy loudly read the paper to him, read in fits and starts but making the entire incident sound like a doomsday judgment.

That was the first time Lewis felt the power of news; after all, the death of a Cabinet Minister was really just larger headlines.

In fact, Lewis wasn’t entirely illiterate; in his youth, he had intermittently attended Sunday School in the countryside of Kent, later working in the printing press where the owner forced him to memorize half of the spelling book to recognize typefaces.

However, nobody had ever told him before that knowing how to read could actually secure food.

After the printing press closed, he wandered the streets for half a month, barely getting by by holding bags, running errands, and reading news in taverns.

Once, a dock worker brought him a letter, saying it was to be sent to a newspaper, asking Lewis to take a look at it.

It was a mess of a complaint letter, full of typos and jumbled syntax.

Lewis revised it according to his understanding, adding one or two Sunday School-style moral comments.

A few days later, he saw the letter had been published in a cheap tabloid, exactly as he had revised it, not a word different. The signature wasn’t his, of course, but instead read—from a concerned worker.

The newsboy casually said: "The assistant editor says things like this are good in abundance. If anyone can write, copy something and send it to them, maybe they’ll appreciate you with a few pennies."

That night, Lewis spent all his money to buy a clean sheet of paper and a pen, attempting to write his first piece of news—according to news from Witfield Street, a drunken coachman drove his coach into the shop window of a bakery...

The writing was crooked, the ink smeared, yet the following week, that little news piece, barely the size of a tofu block, actually appeared in the corner of an anonymous tabloid.

Along with it came a Shilling that clattered through the mail slot...

Lewis lay in bed, thinking until he unknowingly fell asleep.

Until a piercing iron bell jolted him awake from his dreams.

Six in the morning.

The cheese cart’s bell downstairs was as brutally loud as ever, accompanied by the clattering sound of wooden wheels rolling over cobblestones, rousing the tenants along the street one by one.

Lewis sat up abruptly, as if pricked by a needle, jumping out of bed and scrambling over to the beat-up table. He grabbed the basin filled with broken soap and frayed cloth from the edge of the table.

Hurriedly, he went downstairs to fetch some cold water, splashed a few handfuls onto his face, causing his teeth to shiver.

Within minutes, Lewis donned his best attire, the most valuable outcome the "waterfall narrative" had brought him. Whenever he wore it, Lewis felt a strange sense of self-respect welling up in his heart.

He took out the card from his pocket to glance at it, those few lines still steady and sharp, bringing a tight sensation to one’s heart.

He took a deep breath, carefully tucked the card back into the inner pocket of his coat, then rushed down five floors to hail a carriage on the street.

From Witfield Street straight to Soho District, then through Charing Cross, headed directly towards Whitehall.

Lewis shivering, got off the carriage, looked up at the stone-built building at 4 Whitehall Street.

It was exactly seven-thirty then, the sky still bearing the unique gray-blue of the early morning.

The entrance to Scotland Yard was desolate, with only one gas light not completely extinguished yet.

Lewis patted the dust off his clothes, took a deep breath, and summoned the courage to walk forward.

The young officer on duty was leaning behind the desk yawning. Seeing someone enter, he habitually raised his eyes and asked, "Who are you looking for?"

Lewis straightened his back and responded with full spirit: "Sir Arthur Hastings."