“I hope the… performers enjoyed it,” said Doyle. He reflected that this little voyage would make an interesting story to tell over brandy at the Boodles or White’s club some day, once he’d made his fortune. For he wasn’t in any doubt about that. The first few days would certainly be difficult, but the advantage of all his twentieth century knowledge couldn’t help but turn the scales in his favor. Hell, he could get a job for a while on a newspaper, and maybe make some startling predictions about the outcome of the war, and current literary trends; and Ashbless was due to arrive in London in only about a week, and he could easily strike up a friendship with him; and in two years Byron would be returning to England, and he could get an introduction before Childe Harold made him a superstar.
He remembered asking the portrait of William Ashbless whether the girls, scotch and cigars had been better in his day.
CHAPTER 3
—Old Ballad
Though the actual fish market of Billingsgate was the big shed on the river side of Lower Thames Street, the carts of costermongers, heaped with turnips and cabbage and carrots and onions, were jammed wheel hub to wheel hub along the length of Thames Street from the Tower Stairs in the east, by the white medieval castle with flags flying from its four towers, west past the Grecian facade of the Customs House, past the eight crowded quays to Billingsgate Market, and past that to just west of London Bridge; and the clamorous, milling commerce filled the entire street, from the alleys in the north face of Thames Street to where the pavement dropped away to the river ten feet below, and the ranked oyster boats moored to the timbered wharf, with planks laid across their jostling gunwales, formed a narrow, bobbing lane the costermongers called Oyster Street.
Doyle, leaning against an outside corner of the fish barn, was certain he’d walked over every foot of the whole scene during the course of the morning. He looked down with distaste at his basket of scrawny onions, and wished he hadn’t tried to allay his considerable hunger by eating one of them. He patted his pocket to make sure he hadn’t lost the four pennies he’d earned.
He levered himself away from the wooden wall and plodded away in the direction of the Tower again, holding his basket in front of him. “Onions!” he called half-heartedly. “Who’ll buy these fine onions?” Sheila had taught him the litany.
A coster’s wagon, its bed empty, was rumbling past, and the evidently prosperous old fellow on the driver’s seat looked down at Doyle and laughed. “Onions you call those things, mate? I’d call ‘em rat turds.”
Хаос в Ваантане нарастает, охватывая все новые и новые миры...
Александр Бирюк , Александр Сакибов , Белла Мэттьюз , Ларри Нивен , Михаил Сергеевич Ахманов , Родион Кораблев
Фантастика / Исторические приключения / Боевая фантастика / ЛитРПГ / Попаданцы / Социально-психологическая фантастика / Детективы / РПГ