“I’m sure he thought it was a silly question.”
“And what is wrong with asking a teacher to explain something I don’t understand?”
The boy was rather argumentative for his age. No sooner had Ito finished the thought, however, than he saw the two boys interrupted by a brash shout. “Hoy!”
Sherlock and his brother turned around. Three brawny, thick-necked men stood behind them. All three wore their hair cropped close. Their jackets and vests were coarse, even by working-class standards.
“We ain’t selling this lot now,” shouted one of the men, his eyes bulging in a rage. “You’re chucking up for them. It’s a tenner, right.”
The older brother seemed afraid. Sherlock, however, appeared unperturbed. He returned the man’s gaze and answered calmly.
“Naturally. If I might convince our parents, of course? After all, you are hardly engaged in a reputable trade.”
“Are you boshing us? You know how much we put down on this?”
“You put down not one shilling. The nails on the thumbs of your hands are splintered, and there are marks from bruising on the pads of your fingers, as well. This tells me that you possess not even a single pry bar, and are in the regular practice of prying open wooden cargo from the merchant ships with your bare hands. In the common parlance, I believe such acts are generally referred to as larcen—”
Sherlock was cut off mid-sentence. The man had struck him across the cheek with his fist. The boy was thrown bodily off his feet and landed on the street in a heap.
Mycroft quickly stepped between the men and his brother. “Please, you’ll have to forgive my brother for being rude. His schooling has been getting on poorly of late, and I’m afraid he’s begun to get in a way.”
“Right so?! You lot are trussed out in fine enough clobber! Let’s see if the older one ain’t gonna get his own shiner, neither!”
“Enough!” shouted Ito.
The entire street fell quiet. Even the carriages stopped short as the coachmen turned to look. There wasn’t a person nearby who was not now staring at Ito.
The three metal hawkers also stared at him, dumbfounded. Ito strode toward them quickly. Now that he was nearer, he could see just how large they were. Ito, meanwhile, was no taller than the two boys. The top of his silk top hat just barely reached the men’s chins.
One of the hawkers stepped close, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Oy, what’s this? Another godfer wants to empty his pockets, does he? Fancy I could do your coat up as a nursery jacket and turn it over for a penny. Give it over then, before—”
He reached out with both hands to grab Ito, as he spoke. Ito reacted instinctively. He grabbed the man’s lapels in both hands, and took a deep step backward. He planted his elbow into the man’s side, and quickly pivoted close. Turning his body, he threw the man backward, over his shoulder.
The crowd erupted in surprise. The man whistled through the air before striking the cobblestones on his back. Ito hadn’t meant to throw him hard enough to cause serious injury. The man, however, lay sprawled on the ground, spread-eagled. He appeared to be unconscious.
Ito’s top hat had tumbled to the ground. Retrieving it would have to wait.
The two remaining men stared at Ito with expressions of disbelief. The eyes of Sherlock and his brother were wide as well.
Finally, one of the men darted forward. “Damned Chinaman!”
Already he had closed the distance between them. Ito calculated quickly. The situation this time demanded karate, not jujitsu. He squared his arms to his chest and without dropping his shoulders delivered a lightning-fast rising punch. The man staggered backward with a groan as the punch connected squarely with his jaw. Ito pivoted the heel of his dominant foot toward the man, delivering a thrust kick with the edge of his other foot. The man doubled over, clutching at his stomach before tottering to his knees and collapsing.
Ito stared down at him. “I am not Chinese.”
The remaining man reached into the push-cart, prying free an iron bar. It was at least four feet long. He began inching toward Ito, brandishing the bar in both hands. His eyes were bloodshot with anger.
Just then, a woman’s voice called out to him. “Hoy, Mr. Japan!”
Ito glanced over only to see the prostitute from earlier. She tossed him a length of wood. It was merely a squared wooden plank, but it was as long as his opponent’s weapon and appeared sturdy enough. Ito gripped it in both hands, like a katana, and settled into a stance. He held the plank with one corner facing down, thus ensuring a downward strike would deliver considerable force.
The man rushed Ito with a whoop. Ito stepped forward without hesitation, parrying his opponent’s metal rod to the side and following with a full-weighted strike to the man’s brow. The man froze. His eye fluttered back in his head, his body went limp, and he crumpled to the ground.
The prostitute who had thrown the stick let out a cheer and clapped her hands together. As if to squelch her enthusiasm, the shrill sound of a police whistle immediately pierced the air.
The color suddenly drained from the older brother’s face. “Confound it, it’s the police.”
Ito helped Sherlock up, hurriedly. “Can you run?”
Sherlock nodded. Ito swiped his top hat from the ground and cut from the scene with the two boys.
While the scenery around them was for all intents identical to any street in the East End, they were in fact in Cheapside, part of the area known as the City of London. They needed only to slip through a side-alley for their surroundings to morph into those of an orderly metropolis. Ito ushered the boys into a Hamish restaurant he often went to. It was a small establishment, frequented by tourists and other foreigners. Here, even the unlikely combination of an Easterner with two English boys would not draw stares.
The restaurant was fairly quiet in this lull between peak hours. Ito sat down at the counter and ordered three lemonades from the bartender.
“Where are those four chaps you’re always mucking about with?” said the waitress, Enola, teasingly. “It looks as if you’ve finally found yourself some English mates. They’re a tender lot though, I’ll grant you that.”
“I thought I should make some friends my own size,” Ito replied with a grimace. “Enola, may I have a damp towel?”
“Straight away,” she said, dipping behind the counter.
Sherlock took the towel from her and pressed it against his cheek, which was beginning to swell. One eye was hidden behind the towel, but the other stared unblinkingly at Ito.
“Is something wrong?” asked Ito, curious.
“One of your four friends is acquainted with an English gentleman in Hakodate, but you yourself have never been introduced to the man. Your trip to England is also your first foray abroad. You have never been to America.”
Ito’s jaw gaped, despite himself. He stared at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back, unperturbed.
“I believe you forget to thank the man,” the older boy admonished. He turned to face Ito. “You saved us earlier. We can’t begin to thank you. My name is Mycroft Holmes.”
“My name is Shunsuke Ito. I am 22. How old are you, Mycroft?”
“Seventeen. My brother, here, however, is only ten.”
“And very mature for his age. He is clever.”
“You mean clever,” Sherlock muttered.
“What?” Ito said.
“Your C sounds like a K, and your V sounds like a B. If you aspire to smooth communication then you should apply yourself to proper pronunciation.”
A tinge of anger appeared in Mycroft’s face. “Sherlock!”
Ito smiled, waving Mycroft off with one hand. “It’s fine,” he said, taking a sip of the lemonade Enola had brought. “He is correct. The pronunciation of C and V is difficult for Japanese people. It is also very hard for us to distinguish between L and R.”