As night deepened, the bar became more crowded.
New customers were quickly drawn to the scene in the corner—a decent and refined young man was engrossed in writing at a table.
Word of mouth quickly spread, and a small queue even formed in front of Lionel's small table.
As a result, Lionel was surrounded by a continuous stream of "clients," writing letter after letter without stopping...
It wasn't until nearly midnight, when the pub was about to close, that he finally had a chance to put down his pen and stretch his aching, stiff fingers and wrists.
Looking at the growing pile of penny coins on the table, he let out a long sigh, feeling a rare sense of fulfillment.
The boss, while tidying up the tables and chairs, felt quite favorably towards this young man who had brought him so much popularity.
He walked over and said to Lionel:
"Hey, kid, it's too late. The subway and public carriages stopped running long ago.
At this hour, if you want to call a hansom cab, the price is frighteningly expensive, and the money you earned tonight isn't enough for the fare.
I think you might as well stay here for the night and leave at dawn tomorrow?"
Lionel rubbed his tired eyes, thinking the boss made sense.
At this hour, even if he could find a carriage to go to "Good Words" magazine, its doors would have long been closed, and Norman Macleod wouldn't know he had arrived.
So Lionel nodded:
"Then I'll trouble you, boss."
The boss waved his hand:
"Just call me 'Old Jimmy'."
Then he led him up to the attic.
The attic was low, filled with pub sundries, and had a narrow iron-frame bed covered with bedding.
The boss pointed to the bed and said:
"You can sleep on this bed. I occasionally stay here overnight and sleep here too; it's quite clean."
Before leaving, the boss seemed to remember something and turned back to ask:
"By the way, we've talked for so long, and I still don't know your name?"
Lionel casually made one up:
"Bond, James Bond."
To the boss, this was a very common British name.
He nodded, didn't ask further, and went downstairs to lock up.
Days of rushing around, stress, and yesterday's exhaustion had left Lionel utterly fatigued.
He fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow, and didn't wake up until nearly noon the next day.
As soon as he descended the creaking stairs from the attic, he was astonished by the sight before him.
It was still far from official opening hours, but "The Bent Pickaxe" pub was already packed with people.
Most people were dressed plainly, even shabbily, their faces filled with anticipation and a hint of awkwardness.
Seeing Lionel descend, everyone's gaze instantly focused on him.
The boss, busy wiping glasses, saw Lionel and shrugged helplessly: "Hey, James, you're finally awake!
These people have been waiting at the door since not long after dawn! They all heard that a letter-writer with exceptionally good penmanship had arrived here, and so they came looking for him!"
Lionel looked at those eager and earnest eyes.
Among them were old people, women, adult men, and even youngsters with tender faces.
He couldn't refuse those gazes.
So, he said nothing, silently walked to the table from last night, sat down, spread out the letter paper again, and prepared his ink pen.
The first person to sit opposite him was a young woman, her face marked by hardship and fatigue.
She whispered that she wanted to write a letter to her younger brother who was studying far away in Scotland—
Telling him that everything was fine, that she was still working at the "tailor shop" with a generous salary, so he shouldn't worry about tuition fees, and that she would soon be able to send him the next installment of money...
From her flickering eyes, pallid complexion, and the peculiar scent he often detected on Maupassant, Lionel roughly guessed her true profession.
He didn't expose her, but simply wrote a letter full of encouragement and kind lies, as she requested, with every word imbued with a sister's deep love for her brother.
The second was a dock worker, pale and coughing intermittently.
He wanted to write to his uncle who lived in the suburbs, saying that he had contracted pneumonia, had been unable to get out of bed to work for several days, had used up all his savings, and had no money left to buy medicine.
He pleaded with his uncle, for the sake of his deceased mother, to lend him some money to get through this difficult time.
Lionel could feel the despair and shame in his tone, and wrote the plea with words as tactful yet urgent as possible.
Then came the third, fourth, fifth...
There was an old mother who wanted to erect a proper tombstone for her son who died in the colony;
A devoted man who wanted to write to his runaway wife, begging her to return;
And a young apprentice who wanted to persuade his father at home to stop gambling and drinking...
These people were the lowest strata of London's laborers, hawkers, servants, unemployed, and the barely subsisting poor.
Through these ghostwritten letters, Lionel felt as if a window had opened.
He glimpsed the unknown corners beneath the splendor of the "Empire on which the Sun Never Sets," filled with hardship, suffering, and helplessness.
These vivid stories impacted him more intensely than any book.
He wrote for another whole day, until night fell and the bar closed again.
Lionel looked at the considerable pile of penny coins on the table and smiled wistfully to himself.
He thought about how the manuscript fee for a single page of his "Sherlock Holmes" serialization in "Good Words" magazine far exceeded the total sum of the coins before him.
However, for some reason, he felt that these copper coins in his hand, stained with sweat and hope, seemed heavier than those royalty checks.
The boss watched Lionel pack up and said: "James, you can call a hansom cab and leave tonight, right?
This money is enough for you to go anywhere comfortably."
Lionel, however, shook his head.
He remembered that several people today had arrived late and hadn't gotten their turn.
He had already promised them that he would come back tomorrow to write their letters.
Lionel spoke:
"Mr. Jimmy, I promised a few people I'd write for them tomorrow.
I think I might need to stay one more night, and I can pay you some lodging fees."
The boss looked at him with some surprise, seemingly not understanding why this young man of extraordinary background was willing to stay here and do such a trivial job.
He observed Lionel for a moment, then finally nodded:
"As you wish. You can continue to use the attic. Don't worry about the lodging fee; you've brought me so many customers for drinks, that's enough."
The reputation of "James, the particularly good letter-writer" at "The Bent Pickaxe" pub spread throughout the nearby slum like wildfire.
Even the poor from farther streets heard about it and flocked there, filling the already not-so-spacious pub.
They came with all sorts of requests, eager to convey their innermost thoughts through Lionel's pen to those they wished to contact.
Lionel accepted almost everyone, still maintaining the price of two pennies per letter.
He sat in the corner, listening and writing, as if he had already assimilated into this neighborhood, becoming one of them.
However, on the morning of the third day, as Lionel was engrossed in writing a letter for an elderly couple to their son far away in Australia—
Several figures aggressively pushed through the waiting crowd and stood before his table, blocking the light.
Leading them was a tall, strong man with a beefy face, staring at him with malevolent eyes!
(End of chapter)