A biting wind, carrying cold rain, swept through the crisscrossing streets of Manhattan.
However, in the heart of Five Points, two brand new buildings constructed of red brick and granite—the Argyle Orphanage and the Argyle School—firmly kept the cold and despair outside their walls.
Today, Felix canceled his meetings with bankers and politicians.
He changed into a warm tweed suit and, accompanied by several plainclothes subordinates of Jones and Flynn, arrived in an ordinary rented carriage at the place where his destiny began.
His purpose for this trip was to see with his own eyes if the seeds of hope he had sown had truly taken root in this barren land.
As Felix stepped through the heavy oak door of Argyle School, a warm current, a blend of new wood, lime, hot soup, and knowledge, washed over him.
Compared to the dirty, chaotic streets outside, filled with despair and the smell of alcohol, this place was another world entirely.
The corridor was so clean it reflected the gaslight, and the walls were painted a bright off-white.
Guided by Jones, he quietly stood by the back window of a first-grade classroom.
Inside the classroom, over thirty children sat up straight.
They all wore clean, uniform blue cotton school uniforms, and their faces and hands were spotless.
Just a few months ago, most of them were dirty street urchins fighting over rotten fruit in alleys.
A female teacher sent by the church, Miss Annabella, stood in front of the blackboard, leading the children in reading their spelling book with a clear voice.
"B-O-O-K, Book."
"B-O-O-K, Book..."
The children's voices were uneven, with strong Irish accents, but full of vigor.
Felix's gaze fell on a small boy sitting by the window.
That was Liam Seamus.
He sat ramrod straight, his small brows furrowed in intense concentration.
His hand, gripping the slate pencil, had white knuckles from the effort as he clumsily copied the word from the blackboard onto his slate, stroke by stroke.
A smile appeared on Felix's face.
He did not disturb them, merely gestured for Jones to quietly retreat from the corridor.
"Jones," he whispered, "can the children's lunch be guaranteed?"
"Of course, Boss," Jones replied with pride.
"At the central kitchen, I have Sullivan personally supervising. They start making soup at five every morning, using the freshest beef bones and vegetables from our slaughterhouse. The bread is also baked fresh daily at the food factory. I assure you, the children here eat more nutritiously than the lunches in the offices of those Wall Street bankers."
"Very good," Felix nodded.
"Tell Sullivan that there is no cost limit for this matter. I only have one requirement: these children must eat enough and well while they are growing."
"Understood."
...Crossing the courtyard, they arrived at the adjacent orphanage.
The atmosphere here was quieter than the school, and more... like a home.
Sister Margaret was already waiting at the door. Her usually calm face now held a hint of excitement at seeing the benefactor.
"Mr. Argyle," she curtsied, "welcome home. The children... they have been looking forward to your visit."
"It is I who should thank you, Sister," Felix held her hand.
"God will see everything you have done for them."
They entered the warm, bright hall of the orphanage. There was none of the classroom's seriousness; instead, there were several small tables covered with blankets.
Several younger children were gathered around, listening to a nun tell stories from the Bible.
Felix's gaze searched the crowd, and soon, he found that figure.
In a corner near the fireplace, Finn, the stubborn boy who had once pointed a broken bottle at Jones, now sat at a small desk.
He was not reading, but rather... repairing something.
It was an old grandfather clock.
Finn was carefully disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling the tiny gears and springs, one by one, using a small screwdriver and a pair of hands that were unusually steady for his age.
His sister, Bridget, sat quietly on a small stool at his feet, knitting something with colorful yarn.
"He is very talented."
Sister Margaret followed Felix's gaze and whispered.
"He has an almost instinctive intuition for mechanics. All the broken locks and wobbly chairs in the orphanage were fixed by him. A few days ago, he even helped the kitchen fix the broken meat grinder."
Felix watched the focused boy and slowly walked over.
Finn sensed someone approaching. He raised his head vigilantly, and when he saw it was Felix, a hint of panic flashed in his somewhat defiant eyes.
He suddenly stood up, and the tools in his hand fell to the ground.
"Mr. Wi... Argyle."
He nervously rubbed the indelible machine oil on his hands.
"Don't be nervous, child."
Felix smiled gently. He knelt down, picked up the dropped screwdriver, and handed it back to him.
"May I see?"
He pointed to the precise parts disassembled on the table.
Finn paused for a moment, then nodded heavily.
"The... escapement fork here is too worn."
Finn's nervousness vanished once he talked about something he was familiar with.
"I tried to re-grind one using tinplate, but the hardness is still not enough. It always slips."
Felix picked up the extremely smooth piece of tinplate.
He looked at Finn's hands, which were covered with small cuts but exceptionally nimble, and remained silent for a moment.
"You've done very well, Finn," he said.
"Better than many watchmakers I know. However, you've used the wrong material."
He turned to Frost.
"Edward, make a note of this. Tomorrow, have someone send a set of... real Swiss watchmaking tools and some spare spring steel sheets for Finn."
"Yes, Boss."
Finn looked at Felix in disbelief.
"Sir... you mean... for me?"
"Of course," Felix patted his shoulder.
"An excellent craftsman must have the right tools. I look forward to the day I can hear this grandfather clock chime again in this orphanage."
He then looked at the little girl, Bridget, who had been sitting quietly nearby, her curious eyes wide.
"And you, sweetheart," he smiled, "it's getting cold. I'll have Catherine send a batch of new wool blankets and winter clothes for you all, alright?"
Bridget shyly shrank behind her brother, but still softly said, "Thank you, sir."
...As they left the school and orphanage, evening was approaching.
Jones walked beside Felix, reporting in a low voice.
"Boss, as per your instructions, our people have also visited several families in the surrounding community... families you specifically mentioned."
"How did it go?"
"The situation is pretty much as you expected."
Jones's voice was somewhat heavy.
"Patrick Flanagan and Michael McGuire, the two police officers who accidentally destroyed the will. They both live in the cheapest apartments, have large families, and rely on their meager salaries to get by. Flanagan's mother has also been bedridden for years and requires expensive medication."
"And that customs clerk, Timothy Finn," Jones continued.
"He is an honest man, but also a gambler. He owes the tavern a considerable debt. The reason he dared to come forward with information, besides his respect for you, was also... he was desperate for that ten-thousand-dollar reward."
Felix nodded; all of this was within his expectations.
"Edward," he turned to Frost.
"Yes, Boss."
"Establish a 'Federal Public Servant Special Hardship Grant' under the name of the Argyle Charitable Foundation.
The first list of beneficiaries will include the names of Flanagan and McGuire.
The reason will be 'in recognition of their outstanding contributions to maintaining community order.' The amount... five hundred dollars each.
Additionally, have Umbrella Corporation cover all of Flanagan's mother's subsequent medical and medication expenses, completely free of charge."
"As for Timothy Finn..." Felix pondered for a moment.
"The information he provided is worth far more than ten thousand dollars. But giving him cash directly would only harm him."
"Here's what we'll do," Felix decided.
"Hasn't Flynn already taken him into protective custody? Have President Templeton step forward to pay off all his gambling debts first. Then, arrange a position for him at Argyle Bank... an archivist position that doesn't require handling cash. His salary will continue. Tell him that the reward money will be paid to him as an annuity over ten years. The condition is that he must quit gambling and keep his mouth shut."
"Yes, Boss."
Frost quickly took notes. He knew that the Boss wasn't just repaying a favor.
He was also using a smarter way to more firmly bind these key "witnesses" to his large ship.
"Let's go."
Felix took one last look at the two buildings, now lit with warm lights in the twilight.
"Boss," Jones couldn't help but ask, "you've done so much for them... is it worth it?"
Felix did not answer immediately.
He just looked at the blurred figures of children fleetingly passing by behind the windows.
"Is it worth it?" he repeated softly.
"Jones, every person we saw today—Liam, Finn, Flanagan, Finn—they are all seeds."
"What was sown today was not just food and medicine."
"It was also loyalty."
It was a Sunday in early winter, 1863, in New York.
It was a rare day off not shrouded in gloom and rain.
The morning sun pierced through the thin mist, gilding the rooftops of Manhattan's brownstone buildings with a faint golden edge.
Although the cold wind was still biting, it did not prevent the city's residents from putting on their best clothes and flocking to churches or enjoying a moment of leisure.
Felix Argyle, too, had uncharacteristically given himself half a day off.
He and Catherine strolled leisurely near the relatively quiet Gramercy Park.
Two members of the Action Department, dressed in ordinary woolen overcoats, followed them at a respectful distance, like two inconspicuous attendants.
"Have you read the report Jones submitted yesterday?"
Catherine held Felix's arm, her voice exceptionally clear in the cold air.
She wore no bonnet, only a warm wool scarf wrapped around her head, and her face held a softness reserved for private occasions.
"I have."
Felix nodded, enjoying the rare tranquility.
"And I visited last week; the school and orphanage are running very smoothly. Sister Margaret and Jones are both doing an excellent job."
"Excellent, but also... shocking."
Catherine's tone carried a hint of heaviness.
"Jones's report mentioned that during their search for orphans, they found a large number of families, like Seamus O'Malley's, who were being slowly worn down by illness due to a lack of basic medical care."
"Seamus O'Malley..."
Felix murmured the name, a complex flicker in his eyes.
That martyr, used as a pawn by Morgan, who had, by an ironic twist of fate, ultimately helped him.
Catherine continued, "Perhaps we should immediately start the community hospital construction plan. There's still an empty plot next to the Five Points school. If we could build a hospital, a hospital that truly serves the poor, with low fees or even free, that would... unite people more than ten schools."
"I agree," Felix replied without hesitation. "You will lead this, Catherine."
"Me?" Catherine was momentarily stunned.
"Yes. Umbrella Corporation is not just for manufacturing medicines for profit. Its mission is to save lives. There is no better place to embody this mission than by establishing a hospital. And with a hospital, the new drugs from our research lab will have a place for clinical trials."
"So I need you, sweetheart." He squeezed her hand.
"On behalf of Umbrella Corporation and the Argyle Charitable Foundation, go talk to Archbishop Hughes, go talk to those professors at Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons. Build the highest standard hospital for New York City."
"It must not only have doctors and nurses, but also the most advanced sterilization concepts and surgical techniques from our Umbrella labs.
I want it to become a model.
A model to show the whole world what modern medicine should look like."
Catherine looked at the fervent light in Felix's eyes; it seemed she had once again been entrusted with a heavy yet profoundly meaningful mission.
Catherine nodded emphatically.
"I understand, Felix. I will do it."
As the two planned another grand blueprint capable of changing the city's medical landscape, they turned a corner and walked onto a relatively quiet street, dominated by printing and small machinery workshops.
A strange, crisp, rhythmic "click, click, click" sound came from the roadside not far away, catching Felix's attention.
"What is that sound?"
They followed the sound.
At the entrance of a closed watch shop, a man who looked to be in his fifties, with gray hair and worn but clean clothes, sat behind a small wooden table.
In front of him was an extremely peculiar metal contraption.
The thing looked like a combination of a small piano and a sewing machine.
It had a row of round, lettered keys, which were connected by complex linkages to a set of small metal hammers.
The man's fingers flew across the keys, tapping rapidly.
As he tapped, the metal hammers precisely struck a moving paper roll below, leaving lines of black letters as if printed.
Felix's steps instantly stopped.
"No way..." he muttered under his breath.
A typewriter.
In an era when even telegrams still required Morse code for sending and receiving, he had actually seen, on the streets of New York, a rudimentary but clearly functional prototype of a typewriter, complete with a full keyboard and automatic paper feed.
The man seemed to have finished his demonstration; he tore a piece of paper from the machine, on which was a line of clear English.
"Take a look, come and see."
The man stood up and, with a heavy German accent, shouted to the few passersby.
"The revolutionary invention, the 'Writing Key-Piano.' Say goodbye to quill and inkwell. Let your fingers keep up with the speed of your thoughts. Each one... each one only fifty dollars."
However, passersby merely gave it a curious glance, then shook their heads and walked away.
Fifty dollars, in 1863, was nearly three months' salary for an ordinary worker.
Who would spend so much money on a fancy but impractical writing toy?
Felix, however, quickly walked up.
"Hey... sir."
He spoke, his voice slightly altered by a subtle excitement.
The inventor looked up, saw the distinguished young man before him, and a glimmer of hope flashed in his eyes.
"Sir? Are you... are you interested in my invention?"
"May I try it?" Felix pointed to the machine.
"Of course, of course." The man immediately made way.
Felix sat down, took a deep breath, and placed his fingers on the somewhat stiff keys.
He closed his eyes, the familiar QWERTY keyboard layout of later generations appearing in his mind.
But the layout of this machine was clearly different; the letters were arranged according to some logic he couldn't understand.
However, Felix didn't mind, he just tentatively, with two fingers, typed a few letters: A - L - L - E - N.
"Click. Click. Click. Click. Click."
The small metal hammers precisely sprang up, struck the ribbon, and left clear characters on the paper roll.
Although it was a bit laborious and very slow, it... it really worked.
"Remarkable invention, sir."
Felix looked up at the down-and-out inventor before him.
"What... what is your name?"
"Christopher Latham Sholes."
The man replied, a hint of inventor's pride on his face.
"I used to be a newspaper editor in Milwaukee, and it took me a full five years to build it."
"Mr. Sholes."
Felix stood up. He didn't discuss the fifty-dollar price but asked directly.
"Have you applied for a patent for this machine?"
"Patent?"
Sholes was momentarily stunned, then gave a bitter smile.
"Of course I applied. But... what good is it? Those bureaucrats at the patent office, they simply don't understand the value of this thing. And those businessmen," he glanced at Felix, "they're only willing to offer five dollars to buy my patent, then throw it in a warehouse."
Felix looked at him and cautiously asked, "What if, I mean, I'm willing to offer five thousand dollars? To buy the full ownership of your patent."
Five thousand dollars.
Sholes's mind went blank for a moment, followed by a shortness of breath.
He looked at the young man before him in disbelief, thinking he had misheard.
"You... you said... five thousand?"
"Yes," Felix nodded, "Five thousand dollars, cash."
"But I have one additional condition."
"What... what condition?"
Sholes's voice had begun to tremble.
"I don't just want the patent; I also want... to employ you personally."
"I can provide you with a private studio, the best craftsmen in the world, the best materials, and... a research and development fund you cannot refuse."
"I only have one request." Felix looked at him.
"Turn this toy into a tool that can truly change every office in the world."
Felix pointed to the rudimentary machine.
"I need it lighter, faster, more reliable."
Christopher Latham Sholes stared blankly at Felix, feeling as if he were dreaming.
His soul, tormented by poverty and ridicule for five years, was at this moment struck by a sudden, immense feeling of happiness.
His hands trembled violently.
"I..." he began, his voice choked, "I... I'm willing."
In New York, on that quiet street dominated by small mechanical workshops.
The cold wind picked up a few withered leaves, swirling them past Christopher Latham Sholes' solitary "Type-Writer."
The down-on-his-luck inventor was currently looking at Felix with an almost dazed expression.
Five thousand dollars.
This figure made his heart pound violently with an unbelievable ecstasy, and blood rushed to his brain, making him momentarily forget how to breathe.
"But, sir... you..."
His mouth was open, but no sound came out, and his eyes uncontrollably welled up.
He had thought he would die silently in some cold basement in Milwaukee, clutching this useless toy.
But he never expected to meet his "patron" on this unfamiliar street in New York.
"Felix."
Catherine O'Brien had been standing quietly beside him, watching everything.
She walked over to Felix and looked at him with an understanding glance that only the two of them shared.
Although she didn't understand why Felix would suddenly invest passion and money into such a peculiar machine that clearly seemed unsellable.
But since Felix did it, there must be a reason.
Felix gave her a reassuring smile in return. He didn't explain immediately, but instead turned to the inventor, who was still in a state of immense shock.
"Mr. Sholes, it seems we've reached an agreement."
He turned to his assistant, Frost, who had been silently following behind him.
Although it was a day off today, Frost was still dutifully playing his role.
"Edward, immediately draft a provisional letter of intent. A letter of intent regarding the transfer of the patent rights for the 'Type-Writer' and Mr. Sholes' employment contract. The terms... as I just stated."
"Yes, Boss."
Although Frost was also puzzled by the value of this machine, he didn't ask any questions. He simply quickly took out paper, a pen, and a small ink bottle from his satchel.
"Additionally, pay one thousand dollars cash as a deposit from my private account, and give it to Mr. Sholes now."
"Boss," Frost reminded him in a low voice, "we don't have that much cash on us."
"Go to Argyle Bank and withdraw it," Felix's answer was simple and direct.
"Have someone take a carriage and get this done immediately. Then send another carriage to safely bring Mr. Sholes and this machine back to Argyle Central Laboratory."
"I understand, Boss." Frost immediately took the order and then sent someone to get the money.
Felix turned back to Sholes. At this moment, the inventor finally regained a shred of sanity from the immense shock.
"Mr. Argyle...?"
He asked tentatively, recalling the name that was so famous in the newspapers.
"Are you... are you Mr. Felix Argyle?"
"It's me, Mr. Sholes." Felix nodded.
"My God..."
Sholes exclaimed.
He had originally thought he had just met a generous wealthy merchant, but he never expected that the other party was actually New York's, and even America's, most legendary industrial magnate.
"Mr. Argyle."
Sholes' attitude instantly became incredibly respectful, even tinged with a hint of apprehension.
"Do you... do you really think that this... this thing of mine, is worth five thousand dollars?"
"No, Mr. Sholes."
Felix looked at him and corrected him seriously.
"It might only be worth fifty dollars now, or even five dollars. Just as those people say, it's just a clumsy toy."
Felix's gaze fell on the poorly designed row of keys.
"But in it, I see the future."
"In my opinion, what you have invented is not a machine. It is the key to a revolution. And I am merely someone who happened to pass by and was fortunate enough to provide some startup capital for this revolution."
"Of course... no one can say for sure what the future holds, but I think I have the capital to take a gamble. Tens of thousands or even hundreds of thousands of dollars are nothing to me."
Felix, of course, knew the future profitability of typewriters, but he couldn't just blurt out its applications in an unconfirmed deal.
What if the other party backed out?
Human hearts cannot withstand such tests.
Although he had ways to get it in the end, that wouldn't be ideal.
"I... I understand, sir."
Sholes said excitedly, the flame of a creator rekindled in his bloodshot eyes. "I will not let you down. Lighter, faster, more reliable. I... I will definitely achieve it."
"I have no doubt." Felix patted his shoulder.
"However, before that, you first need a warm room, a good meal, and new clothes. Frost will arrange everything for you."
...Half an hour later, after the carriage sent by Frost picked up Sholes and his precious machine.
Felix and Catherine continued their interrupted stroll. The two members of the Action Department still followed not too far behind.
It was as if the five-thousand-dollar transaction just now was merely a casual inquiry for directions.
"Now, can you tell me?"
Catherine finally couldn't help but ask, her eyes full of curiosity.
"Felix, what exactly did you see in that 'Type-Writer'? It looks so cumbersome, and who would need to use it to write? Isn't a pen more convenient?"
Felix smiled. He took Catherine's hand and walked into a warm cafe next to Gramercy Park.
After sitting down by the window, he slowly began to speak.
"My dear, do you remember what was the most headache-inducing thing when managing Umbrella Corporation and the charitable foundation?"
"Headache-inducing things?" Catherine thought for a moment.
"There were too many. Piles of documents, never-ending reports, and... the snail-like transcription speed of the bookkeepers. Every financial statement took several days to verify."
"Exactly."
Felix nodded, pinpointing the problem sharply.
"That's the problem. The production efficiency of our factories has increased tenfold. Railway transport efficiency has increased fivefold. But our offices are still stuck in the Middle Ages."
"We use the fastest telegraph to transmit information, but we have to use the slowest pen to record it."
"And that machine is the key to solving this problem."
"Imagine, Catherine."
He painted a picture of the future for her.
"If the typing efficiency of that machine is increased several times, then your office will no longer be filled with the rustling sound of pen tips, but with the crisp clicking of keyboards.
Your assistant can complete letters and reports in an hour that used to take you a whole day to write.
Frost's memos, Templeton's bank statements, Jones' inventory lists... everything will be recorded clearly and accurately at an unprecedented speed."
"It will unleash enormous productivity."
"And its significance for the office is like the 'Organ Gun' for the battlefield. It is a machine of efficiency."
Catherine listened to Felix's description.
Her equally intelligent mind instantly grasped the commercial value inherent in this machine.
"My God, Felix..." she murmured.
"You always see things that none of the rest of us can see."
"I just happen to know what the future needs, that's all."
Felix smiled, taking a sip of the hot coffee in his hand.
He felt very pleased.
He knew that what he had gained today was not just a Christopher Latham Sholes.
It was a massive industry capable of bringing him a continuous stream of profits for decades to come.
And all of this stemmed from a rare Sunday afternoon stroll.