"I suspect this fellow has connections with the mob! Arrest him!"
The arrival of reinforcements ended the whole fight cleanly and swiftly, and the fat police chief once again resumed his usual domineering stance, arrogantly pointing at Jerome Bonaparte and ordering the police to arrest him.
The officers who had fought alongside Jerome Bonaparte exchanged glances but did not act.
"You... Are you intending to disobey my orders?" The fat police chief was furious at their defiance.
Then, he pointed to several officers unfamiliar with Jerome Bonaparte, demanding they arrest him.
"Mr. Stalin is not a mobster! Mr. Stalin just helped us!" George John stood up to defend Jerome Bonaparte, who showed a relieved smile, thinking the young man still had some conscience.
"If I say he’s a mobster, then he’s a mobster!" The fat police chief twisted his authority, saying, "Who knows if he was colluding with the mob earlier! Maybe he’s the insider for the mob!"
"You..." George John was too angry to speak.
"Alright, kid!" Jerome Bonaparte gently patted George John’s shoulder and said kindly, "There’s no reasoning with scum !"
"You..." The fat police chief rolled up his sleeves, wanting to give Jerome Bonaparte a beating.
"Are you sure you want to fight me?" Jerome Bonaparte kindly "reminded," "If it’s a private duel, it can be deadly!"
The fat police chief, realizing Jerome Bonaparte’s prowess, sullenly rolled down his sleeves.
The cowardly act caused disdain among his subordinates and fellow officers.
In this 19th century when the spirit of noble duels had not completely declined, private duels were certainly something for all ages.
Anyone who dared not accept a challenge was considered a coward, unable to hold their head high in the noble class.
Thus, many noblemen and commoners would choose to duel out of a moment’s resentment, and in Britain, the annual death toll from duels was by no means less than from car accidents.
"Quick! Arrest him for me!" The fat police chief shouted in anger and shame.
Although the fat police chief knew he could do nothing to this guy, he still wanted Jerome Bonaparte to taste the trouble of being detained.
Several officers surrounded Jerome Bonaparte, and one of them, with an apologetic smile, said, "Sir, do you have any message for your family?"
The officer implied for Jerome Bonaparte to seek family help for bail.
After all, London’s prisons could only hold paupers, not gentlemen of the United Kingdom.
After informing George John of the location of the Louvre Mansion, Jerome Bonaparte handed Ham and his cane to George John, "Make sure to deliver my message to those at the mansion!"
"I understand!" George John nodded affirmatively.
As they parted, it seemed Jerome Bonaparte remembered something, and he called out to George John, "Tell the mansion people to inform my family that the United Kingdom has imprisoned me! They need to accuse me of advocating for workers!"
George John didn’t understand Jerome Bonaparte’s meaning but decided to relay his words verbatim to the mansion people.
Accompanied "thoughtfully" by over 200 police officers, Jerome Bonaparte and McGrath arrived at the London Metropolitan Police Detention Center.
"Chief, it seems this isn’t a prison!" Jerome Bonaparte smiled and said to the fat police chief.
"You..." The fat police chief said nothing, then ordered two officers to lock Jerome Bonaparte and McGrath in the same detention cell.
The detention cell wasn’t big but was clean.
Two small wooden beds, a round wooden table, and an extinguished kerosene lamp on the square table were the only furnishings in the detention cell.
Sunlight streamed through the square iron window into the room, the only bright spot in the entire room, with the iron-barred door completely severing Jerome Bonaparte’s connection to the outside world.
With nothing urgent at hand, Jerome Bonaparte lay on the small bed waiting for Percy’s rescue.
Even if George John didn’t inform Percy, his angel investor Lionel Rothschild would also rush over to bail him out.
Jerome wasn’t mindlessly entering the detention center; sometimes, staying inside had more influence than being outside.
A certain "great man" from South Africa inspired Jerome.
Moreover, with the situation outside so chaotic, the prison was the best way to jump out of the whirlpool.
Jerome Bonaparte lay on the bed preparing to close his eyes when McGrath’s voice awakened him.
"Hmm?" Jerome Bonaparte opened his eyes and looked at the conflicted McGrath, "What’s the matter?"
"Well..." McGrath reorganized his words and asked, "What were the answers to those questions you raised there?"
"Which questions?" Jerome Bonaparte scratched his head.
"About what to overthrow with? What’s..." McGrath repeated Jerome Bonaparte’s previous questions again.
"Oh, that..." Jerome Bonaparte looked at McGrath with interest and then lay back down.
"You rascal!" After hesitating for a long time, McGrath bit his teeth and said, "Tell me! What do you want for the answers?"
Jerome Bonaparte rose again, glanced at McGrath, then shook his head, "Mr. Karl Marx and Mr. Friedrich Engels are undoubtedly more authoritative on this than me. You should seek them out! As for my previous question..."
Jerome Bonaparte orally recited a portion of the Dragon Slaying Skill to McGrath from memory.
After speaking, Jerome Bonaparte summarized, "Sometimes, a revolution might not happen in the strongest places of imperialism. Instead, those weaker places are more revolutionary! Especially in regions where contradictions are sharp!"
"You mean Ireland?" McGrath seemed to understand something.
"I never said anything!" On the surface, Jerome Bonaparte showed a look of "Not I, didn’t, do it," but internally, he was somewhat hopeful that the sharp Anglo-Irish contradiction might nurture a powerful enough bomb under the catalyst of Dragon Slaying Skill.
"The future depends on you!" Jerome Bonaparte said to McGrath in an experienced tone.
After speaking, Jerome Bonaparte lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, leaving McGrath to ponder and digest the knowledge imparted by Jerome Bonaparte alone.