The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 1759 - 83: Birth of a Millionaire, Part 2

In the London Stock Exchange of 1835, this wasn’t particularly astounding.

Because, a few years earlier, the Manchester and Liverpool Railway Company’s initial public offering had an estimated value of eight hundred thousand British pounds, with an annual dividend yield of 6.5%.

On the other hand, the London Shipping Company raised two hundred fifty thousand British pounds with a conservative annual return of 2.7%.

And the West London Gas Lamp Company, with nothing more than a contract for lamps from the London City Government, attracted public subscription demand nearly nine times the issuance amount.

After experiencing the London Stock Market crash of 1829, now, six years later, investors’ confidence had already returned. Presently, the lack here was never money but good companies.

Unlike the mainstream railway, shipping, and public service companies on the Stock Exchange, Empire Publishing had a transparent profit structure and negligible debt, with no heavy asset items like "land rights lease" or "ocean insurance" on their books. The only topic of discussion among investors was its investment model in the electromagnetic telegraph domain, which the world had yet to fully understand.

However, the little doubt investors had was greatly alleviated after the Royal theft incident at Golden Cross Station, as they saw opportunities more enticing than risks beyond the risks themselves.

Thus, such a company relying on "writing things" and "sending things" to make money actually received subscription applications exceeding the planned issuance amount by 1.4 times on the day of valuation release.

According to the IPO plan tailored by Rothschild Bank for Empire Publishing, their initial public offering would release thirty thousand ordinary shares with a face value of 5 pounds, at a subscription price of 6 pounds and ten shillings per share, totaling around one hundred ninety-five thousand British pounds. The remaining shares would be distributed preferentially through strategic collaboration with Rothschild Bank and Baring Bank.

On Empire Publishing’s first day of trading, its stock price surged to 9 pounds per share, with a market value approaching eight hundred ten thousand British pounds.

Although this market value still paled compared to those asset-heavy mainstream investment companies, approximately equating to five times the total five-year profit of a mid-sized coal company, it did not prevent Empire Publishing’s founders from earning lavishly.

The most noteworthy on this lavish earning list was not Great Dumas, for he had long flaunted his two thousand preferential shares at the ball to the noble ladies. Nor was it Disraeli, the currently popular Conservative Party congressman, who cryptically told everyone at the party that he possessed merely a symbolic portion, having already entrusted his stocks to the Rothschild family trust.

Truly seated firmly within was the chairman of the Empire Publishing Group Board: Sir Arthur Hastings.

In his possession were five thousand founder ordinary shares, neither publicly traded nor circulated, yet each share enjoying triple voting rights. According to the "Empire Publishing Company Articles," these shares held preferential veto rights and board seat designation rights within ten years of company founding. The only downside was that they could not be sold within three years.

But, Sir Arthur believed he could fully accept this downside.

Unlike those obsessed with valuations, doubling, and arbitrage, Arthur was indifferent to short-term book returns.

He voiced no opinion on the issuing price of six pounds and ten shillings per share, nor did he care about the cashing-out- exit path offered by Lionel Rothschild.

Yet, his indifference to stock prices did not mean Eld and Darwin shared that indifference.

The tavern was filled with smoke, with a few drops of wine stains unswiped from the table top, Arthur had just pushed some stock certificates in front of Eld and Darwin. The two, upon glancing at them for a moment, felt as though kicked by a mule, their heads buzzing.

"My God... back then, I merely signed the documents you sent me offhandedly..."

Eld muttered, holding onto the British preferential stock certificate Arthur just handed him, his mouth slightly twitching.

Originally, he thought he must rely on the Royal Navy’s retirement pension to live in his old age.

But now it seemed, even the Royal Navy’s pension wasn’t enough to pay for a tooth.

Darwin’s situation was no better than Eld’s, he scrutinized the stock certificates repetitively, like discovering a rare reptile.

Though Darwin uttered not a single word of disbelief from start to end, his varied expressions and nearly standing hair had already explained everything.

"My God! I must be dreaming..." Eld took a swig of absinthe, his eyes wide open: "If I sold these stocks, could I almost buy a small Escort Ship?"

He glanced around suddenly feeling like everyone in the tavern was eyeing him.

Eld hastily stuffed the stocks into his coat, wrapping tight, afraid someone might soon rob his life savings.

Truth be told, even facing Victoria previously, he hadn’t been this nervous.

"What’s with your nerves?" Great Dumas cast a disdainful glance at the fellow: "End of the world, it’s just nine thousand British pounds, Eld, stop acting like you’ve never seen money in your life."

"Shh!" Eld glared viciously at Great Dumas: "Do you know how much I earned feeding mosquitoes in South America? Five pounds a month! That’s after the circumnavigation subsidy!"

"Well, now you have it, Mr. Nine Thousand Pounds." Dickens raised his glass with a smile: "Eld, you must be the broadest gentleman aboard the Beggar now. Oh, wait, I almost forgot Charles. But between you two, you should be about neck to neck."

"Darn! Just darn!" Eld’s heart pounded, the stocks pressed against his chest felt scorching like a hot iron: "I used to think we were printing magazines and newspapers, never dreamed you people were printing banknotes!"

"Printing banknotes? Don’t put it so bluntly, Eld." Arthur rolled his cigar with his finger, calmly inhaling: "Honestly, if a paltry sum scares you like a lady seeing a train for the first time, it seems you’ve hardly seen much out there during those years on the sea. You don’t truly understand what proper business looks like."

"Oh?" Eld squinted, pressing those stocks tighter: "Arthur, then tell me, what constitutes proper business? You wouldn’t be talking about Alexander’s theater propped by mistresses in Paris would you?"

Great Dumas brushed off Eld’s sarcasm: "Look at you, someone who’s never been worldly-wise. My theater, Temple Street in Paris, with three-layered boxes full every night, plays transitioning frequently from Shakespeare to neoclassical dramas, and then to my own plays, with audiences ranging from University of Paris professors to National Assembly representatives, from Prussian ambassadors to French Academy academicians."

"Hmph..." Eld bore disbelief, his "won’t fall for it" face clear: "If you have such skill, why not take me to see? When we go to Paris, it turns out your theater is actually a hat shop."

Great Dumas stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, tone shifting: "Isn’t just taking you to see then? I promise. When my new play hits Paris next month, you’ll come along. I’ll give you a front-row box, an end-of-play gala, an entire table with champagne and lobster. Oh, and a soprano I specially invited from Toulouse."

"Go to hell!" Eld rolled his eyes: "Not when you just provide a few tickets, leaving me to foot the travel bill. Am I as foolish as you? Heaven knows you’ve already colluded with Victor and those in Paris under the coconut tree to snatch my stocks. I’m not going to Paris."

(More to come tomorrow)