This is the last time I make a foolish mistake, I promise.
—Arthur Hastings "Hastings' Memoirs: Fifty Years of Life"
The silence inside the carriage was terrifying, Pinkerton seemed frozen in place.
He didn't immediately contradict, nor did he jump up to question, on the contrary, he just sat there rigidly.
The carriage gently swayed, and the wooden walls creaked slightly.
Arthur didn't actually expect this nineteen-year-old lad to give him any surprising reply, he was merely muttering: "When I first joined Scotland Yard, I was about the same age as you are now. The police force back then was different from now, formal training and rules were virtually nonexistent. Due to a shortage of personnel, quite often we didn't even have fixed patrol routes. New recruits were given a baton, a uniform, and sent to the messiest, dirtiest street corners. 'Alright, start patrolling, sir.'"
