The next stop for the train, a tall, deep-set foreigner with a prominent nose boarded First Class, accompanied by a black-haired, black-eyed Chinese interpreter.
Jiang Mingxi immediately perked up.
She pretended to flip through the menu filled with indecipherable foreign script, all the while stealing glances at the two men with the corner of her eye.
The bearded foreigner looked to be about fifty or sixty, wearing a tall top hat and a crisp black suit, carrying a black cane— his every movement exuding presence.
The interpreter, on the other hand, wore a brown suit, sported the currently fashionable middle-parted hairstyle, and wore gold-rimmed glasses.
He smiled obsequiously at the foreigner, but put on an arrogant face for the Conductor, “Two coffees, black, no sugar.”
The two of them happened to sit right behind Jiang Mingxi, separated by only a seat back, so she could catch their entire conversation.
The Conductor brought over the coffee, and the foreigner rattled off something in a foreign tongue— Jiang Mingxi guessed it was probably “thank you.”
Then the Conductor received a tip. Judging from his excited tone, the tip must have been quite generous.
Jiang Mingxi grew more and more intrigued.
She had a sharp sense that this was an opportunity.
An opportunity to learn a foreign language for free.
After the Conductor left, the foreigner and the interpreter began to chat away.
The two of them didn’t sound exactly the same.
To Jiang Mingxi’s ears, the foreigner’s pronunciation was smooth and fluid, while the interpreter’s was much stiffer.
Jiang Mingxi thought, just like there are differences between Hangzhou and Beiping dialects, foreign languages must have different accents too.
Jiang Mingxi listened in for a while, then boldly decided to make a move.
She took out a Silver Dollar, found the right angle, and flicked it skillfully. With a long “ding,” the coin rolled in an arc across the floor, wobbling to a stop right at the interpreter’s feet.
Jiang Mingxi stood up, walked over to the neighboring seat, and smiled as she said, “Excuse me, could you please move a little? I dropped my money.”
Cao Hua was in the middle of an engaging conversation, but was suddenly interrupted. He glanced over, feeling somewhat annoyed.
…Well, at least she looks decent. Maybe just a bit below his own standard.
But for a man, what matters most is talent, or money.
Yet this person was dressed in a shabby long gown… His gaze dropped to the Yuan Coin at his feet, and he felt nothing but contempt.
Picking up a single Yuan Coin? Pathetic.
Cao Hua lazily shifted his foot, signaling her to take her money and leave, then continued his previous topic with Mr. Lewis, “I quite like Shelley’s poetry.”
He then recited a famous line from Shelley on the spot, closing his eyes and immersing himself in the poetic mood.
As the last word fell, instead of applause, he was greeted by Mr. Lewis’s accented Mandarin, which was rather stiff.
“Sir, do you need something?”
Cao Hua opened his eyes in surprise, seeing the plainly dressed youth still standing by the table—he hadn’t left yet?
Jiang Mingxi looked delighted, flattering, “You speak Chinese? Your Chinese is excellent.”
“Only a little bit,” the bearded foreigner replied with a hearty laugh, looking at the Chinese interpreter across from him. “Most of the time, I need my Chinese friend here to translate for me.”
Cao Ye straightened up with pride, his chin lifted, and shot a sidelong glance at the tactless bumpkin. “We are discussing private matters. Don’t you know the saying, ‘Do not listen to what is improper’?”
“Oh, sorry, but I understood what you were saying.”
Cao Hua’s anger flared.
You understood, and you still listened? Do you think this is a monkey show for your amusement?
He and Mr. Lewis had met many people like this on their journey.
At the sight of Mr. Lewis, they’d gawk as if spotting some rare beast, loudly discussing his appearance, clinging to him like leeches, and a single sentence in English would draw peals of laughter…
Though Mr. Lewis was broad-minded and didn’t take offense, Cao Hua always felt deeply ashamed.
Such people were ignorant and uncivilized, crude and barbaric—what difference was there between them and beasts? Truly a disgrace to the Chinese.
Cao Hua had thought First Class passengers would be cultured and polite, but unexpectedly, there were still such rude bumpkins among them.
Cao Hua stood up, his tone harsh, “You are not welcome here. Please leave at once!”
The youth blinked, then suddenly began to recite poetry.
It was the same Shelley poem he had just recited.
“Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own…”
Relying on memory, Jiang Mingxi repeated the words that had just been translated, then looked curiously at the bearded foreigner who spoke so well, “This passage is really beautiful. I understand the meaning, but I can’t quite grasp the unique sense of beauty in it— the rhythm rises and falls, like the wind itself, sometimes strong and urgent, sometimes gentle and soft… May I trouble you to explain its meaning to me?”
Lewis was a bit surprised, but still replied, “This is a poem by the English poet Shelley, called ‘Ode to the West Wind.’”
The Eastern youth’s eyes shone brightly, and then he requested Lewis to tell him more.
Lewis answered, “Ode to the West Wind.”
“Olewind,” the Eastern youth repeated, his tone, accent, and even volume almost exactly like a neighbor living next door to Lewis.
“You are Lond—” The words were halfway out before he realized that was impossible.
Because the youth clearly didn’t understand English.
“You don’t understand English, yet you can recite Shelley’s long poem?!” Ignored yet again, and now the youth was cozying up to Mr. Lewis directly— using such a clumsy excuse.
Cao Hua was furious and immediately questioned her.
…Jiang Mingxi didn’t understand.
Because he was speaking English.
But in there, she heard a new name: Shelley.
Jiang Mingxi repeated the sentence in English, then excitedly asked the bearded foreigner, “What does this sentence mean? Is it also Shelley’s poem?”
She thought to herself, Shelley’s poem in this line seemed rather mediocre, as it didn’t sound beautiful or rhyme.
Cao Hua: …
Cao Hua was livid.
He was convinced this brat was deliberately picking a fight!
He jumped up, pointing at Jiang Mingxi’s nose and shouted, “Conductor, throw this rude brat out!”
The Conductor had been watching the commotion from the side and now looked troubled at the request.
After all, both were First Class passengers—he couldn’t afford to offend either.
He hesitated, looking at the plainly dressed young man. Actually, he had a good impression of Mr. Jiang.
Because Mr. Jiang was always polite to him, unlike that pretentious interpreter who looked down his nose at everyone and ordered him around.
Jiang Mingxi’s eyes sparkled, and she earnestly requested, “Could you please say that sentence in English again?”
Cao Hua: …?
Jiang Mingxi saw his face flush red, nostrils flaring, breathing heavily like a boiling kettle— she half expected him to start steaming any second.
Tsk, this guy really has a temper.
She was just trying to learn a few sentences of English. The bearded foreigner wasn’t angry, so why was he?
Even if she only learned an English poem and the name of a poet called Shelley today, it was still a good deal.
Jiang Mingxi didn’t want to cause trouble on the train, so she just grumbled inwardly, then gratefully nodded at the bearded foreigner, using the only English phrase she knew, “Thank you.”
She turned to return to her seat, but a voice sounded behind her.
The bearded foreigner asked, “Do you really know English?”
Jiang Mingxi immediately turned around and plopped down in the seat the interpreter had just vacated, pretending not to notice the interpreter’s dark expression, and answered honestly, “I really do.”
“But your ‘Thank you’ just now had a genuine Scottish Accent.”
Lewis looked at the remarkable Eastern youth with interest. “When you said ‘Ode to the West Wind,’ it was standard London Accent, and when you recited Shelley’s ‘Ode to the West Wind,’ you had a Chinese Immigrant Accent. Sir, that’s already three different accents. I’m afraid it can’t really be called ‘knowing English,’ can it?”
Now it was Jiang Mingxi’s turn to be surprised.
“So these are three different accents?” she said. “I didn’t know— I was just simply mimicking the pronunciation.”
Simply mimicking the pronunciation?
That was so absurd that even Cao Hua wanted to laugh. And in fact, he did laugh.
Lewis looked at her in astonishment, almost doubting his own ears.
To mimic a sentence or two was understandable, but she had just recited several lines of Shelley’s poetry!
He knew there were geniuses in the world with photographic memory— he’d even met a few.
Even an ordinary person like himself could, with some tricks, memorize a few sentences for a short time.
But to recite several lines of English poetry perfectly after hearing them once, without understanding English at all? And to imitate the accent so flawlessly?
Lewis laughed, kindly looking at the young person who didn’t know their own limits, and advised, “Sir, I believe honesty is the greatest virtue. Don’t you agree?”
Cao Hua wanted to add a few mocking words as well— the words were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them, his face alternating between green and white, shoulders trembling with rage.
He finally realized.
Mr. Lewis had said her recitation of “Ode to the West Wind” had a Chinese Immigrant Accent, and she’d replied that she was just mimicking others’ pronunciation.
Bastard! She was basically saying his English accent wasn’t pure!
Everyone knew how hard it was to learn English. Those twisted, tadpole-like letters, the tongue-twisting pronunciations, the complex grammar— it had tormented Cao Hua for countless days and nights.
Cao Hua had spent six years, enduring hardship and diligence, before finally mastering fluent English.
His accent was so pure that even locals praised him, and now this person had the nerve to say, to his face, that he had a Chinese Immigrant Accent.
Cao Hua was furious, pointing at Jiang Mingxi and shouting, “You’re full of nonsense, I get it now! You’re a Train Thief! The Press reported it— there are Train Thieves specializing in robbing First Class! You’re making a scene to help your accomplices steal, aren’t you!”
Jiang Mingxi: …
She couldn’t help but roll her eyes.
To call her a thief—now that was an insult.
In her previous life, at least, she was the Yanmenguan Gate Heir— she could go three years without a job, and a single job could feed her for three years.
Even before she finished her apprenticeship, she could swindle tens of thousands of Silver Dollars in one go. After she graduated, her very first job netted her millions.
It was a pity she’d been too short-sighted back then, lacking international vision—if she’d learned English early on, would she need to put up with this nonsense now?
As for the so-called Train Thief who specialized in First Class, she’d actually known one in her past life— a legendary figure in the field, whose “Su Qin Carrying the Sword” technique was masterful.
But even he could only steal a few hundred or thousand at a time— she used to laugh at him for working so hard for so little.
The middle-parted interpreter’s wild accusations really did draw suspicious looks from the Conductor and passengers.
The Conductor, no longer able to stall, spoke a bit more forcefully, “Mr. Jiang, please return to your seat.”
She also saw nearby passengers quietly clutching their purses.
Jiang Mingxi, though not afraid of trouble, didn’t want to make things worse.
But her reputation was being smeared— she had to fight back.
“First, I boarded the train alone. I have no accomplices, as you claim. Second…” Jiang Mingxi looked directly at the bearded foreigner across from her, and said bluntly, “Say any sentence in English at random. I’ll recite it back. If I get a single word wrong, I’ll get off the train immediately.”