Hutter walked over with a bitter face, stood at attention at the edge of the crowd, waiting to be "defeated in one move."
Colly swung his police baton, kicked forward, but before he could swing his Civilization Cane, the gambler he had pounded on the ground seed to recover suddenly and jumped up to knock Colly down.
The gambler straddled Colly, swinging his fist and gritting his teeth, "You damn well beat , look clearly who I am, I am Lower House mber Benjamin Disraeli!"
But his small stature was no match for an officer from Scotland Yard who was weathered by sun and wind. He had only punched twice before Colly flipped him to the ground.
"You’re Disraeli? If you’re Disraeli, then I must be Duke Arthur Wellesley of Wellington!"
Colly roared angrily as he picked up the unlucky chap who claid to be a mber and pressed him back down to the ground, his movents crisp, quick, and without hesitation.
But as soon as he finished speaking, the fellow in the carriage who had truly witnessed Disraeli’s "turtle punch" finally noticed sothing was amiss.
He examined that person’s face carefully, though swollen like a stalactite cave, but that exaggerated long nose, slightly luxurious black curly hair, and that flamboyant red vest and green shorts...
Oh, damn, it really is Benjamin!
"Wait!" Arthur’s tone suddenly changed, as he forcefully swung open the carriage door and stepped onto the stone-paved street, "Stop!"
Colly was ready to deliver another kick but instinctually held back upon hearing Arthur’s command: "What’s the matter, sir?"
Arthur stepped forward, crouched down, looking at the "mber sir" who had been beaten to a pulp.
"Benjamin, are you still breathing?"
The man coughed while clutching his face: "Better than it was that night at the Tower of London, but still barely."
Colly was dumbfounded; the Civilization Cane in his hand clattered to the ground, his street-smart face now a picture of shock.
"You really are..." He suddenly straightened up, frantically helping Disraeli to his feet: "Mr. Disraeli, how... how co you’re here?"
"Why else?" Disraeli said while brushing off the dust from his body, shakily pulling a crumpled theater ticket from his pocket: "To see a script rehearsal! Dear Sir Arthur wanted to give my opinion on the ballet. I was just passing by and thought I’d try my luck, and nearly got sent off to et God by you!"
Colly helped him sit down while raising his hand to steady him: "Do you need to call a doctor for you?"
Disraeli heard and responded cynically while wheezing: "Doctor? Perhaps you’d rather call Mr. William Turner, then maybe you can hang on the walls of Scotland Yard along with the others."
Colly’s face turned green upon hearing this: "Misunderstanding, truly a misunderstanding! It was dark and you spoke in such a way... my occupational habit... reflex reaction! Really sorry! mber sir, you see..."
"Do you know?" Disraeli growled, "Even if I weren’t a mber, just from the way I’m dressed, you should know I’m a gentleman, not so gambler. All of London, no, all of Britain, who else but would dress so fashionably, wearing green shorts to go cockfighting?"
Colly awkwardly tugged at the corner of his uniform: "Yes, yes, my vision..."
Arthur also joined to smooth things over: "Sorry, Benjamin, this matter can’t entirely be blad on Colly. Perhaps so fault lies with Minister Rowan too. Ever since Scotland Yard carelessly lost so mber data, new recruits probably wouldn’t know—a gentleman who prefers red and green suspenders isn’t soone to ss with."
"Enough, enough!" Disraeli waved impatiently: "Speaking of which, this can’t entirely be blad on you guys. I won’t hold you up from your duties. In the future, when I see Scotland Yard, I’ll just steer clear!"
Colly wanted to say a few words of explanation, but saw Arthur gesturing for him to stand down.
So he just saluted Arthur and then, looking quite crestfallen, joined the battle against illegal gambling activities.
Arthur took out his white gloves and dusted off the ash from the stone steps, sitting next to Disraeli.
Before he spoke, Disraeli shot him a dirty look.
The unhappy Jewish lad grumbled, "I’m getting pounded on the ground seeing stars while you’re there enjoying the show. It’s practically a street version of the new Caucasus incident."
Arthur couldn’t help but laugh at this: "Benjamin, I..."
"No more ’I’! Disraeli sat on the stone steps looking entirely disheartened: "My reputation in the Lower House is already wavering. If tomorrow The Morning Post publishes a story about ’Benjamin Disraeli’s Green Short Cockfight Arrest’, do you believe my reputation will be utterly ruined!"
Arthur swore to the heavens: "I promise, this will never get out. You have to trust Scotland Yard, our confidentiality skills are still intact."
Disraeli gave him a glare and slamd the theater ticket onto Arthur’s knee: "Here, I’m not watching anymore! You go let Alexander do ballet, let Charles sing soprano. All I want to do tonight is sit ho wrapped in a blanket, writing so angry critiques."
Arthur, seeing that he was about to quit, hurriedly persuaded: "Benjamin, this won’t do, it’s a critical mont now. The new play is about to premiere and lacking your expertise..."
Disraeli interrupted him: "Expertise? Have you ever seen an expert getting his head pounded like this? Look at ! I’m finished, it’s all over, Gladstone the lumberjack is going up! Elections are right around the corner. You say! Just with my current appearance, how can I go and participate in campaigning activities? How will voters view a candidate whose eyes are swollen like light bulbs?"
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