WSMTATMC C137

Chapter 137

Business at the shop was booming and short of supply; in particular, the bamboo-tube popsicles were practically the summer’s perfect heat-relief charm.

Ice was not commonly enjoyed in summer, so common folk cherished it. A bowl of iced dessert costing dozens of cash might be too dear to indulge, but at ten cash a stick, a popsicle every so often to satisfy a craving was within reach.

But with high sales came a problem: not enough bamboo tubes.

By day, Steward Chen and Chen Fang sawed tubes and branded characters at home; a whole day only yielded a few hundred, and every tube had to be deburred—a troublesome task. Steward Chen was getting on in years; though he said nothing, the labor left his back and waist aching.

Wang Ying simply sent Ma Qianzi to ask the carpentry shops in town for a quote to custom-make such bamboo tubes.

The quote came back at one cash and five li per tube, bamboo provided by the shop—a fair price. Wang Ying placed an order for one thousand tubes every five days, running through the seventh month.

A carpenter’s hand showed: the bamboo cups were consistent in size, the rims smoothly polished, and even the branded characters were far clearer than their own—money well spent.

At dawn, before first light, Wang Ying began hauling popsicles and ice shā from the experimental field.

Hearing the sounds, Yuanbao rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Ah-Fu…”

“Be good—sleep a bit more. It’s still dark.”

“Mm.” He agreed, but could not sleep—fiddling with his wooden pony, wide black eyes watching Wang Ying at work.

The bamboo popsicles were neatly stacked in crates—forty to a box, just over twenty jin. Shifting them all was no small effort.

Compared with before, this was mild labor. Back when Wang Ying worked part-time, he’d done stevedoring—eighty yuan for three hours, moving tons of cargo—arms limp by the end.

But this body was not the last life’s—likely a matter of sex. He did plenty of work, yet his muscles were nowhere near as developed as Chen Qingyan’s. When the two “tussled,” he could never gain the upper hand, always pinned down and “handled.”

In a short while he was sweat-soaked. Yuanbao scrambled up, grabbed a palm fan, and began fanning him.

Wang Ying found the tiny show of care too endearing. “No need to fan Ah-Fu—go play on the bed.”

“Ah-Fu’s hot and sweating. Yuanbao’s not hot. Yuanbao will fan Ah-Fu.”

Wang Ying couldn’t help kissing his little cheek. “So good.”

Who knew whom the child took after—he certainly hadn’t been so lovable as a boy.

Roosters crowed outside. With the last two runs done, the room had cooled—dozens of ice crates made it like a cold store.

He slipped a jacket over Yuanbao. “Go play in Grandma’s room—Ah-Fu needs to work.”

“Okay.” Shoes on, he pattered off to Madam Li’s.

Wang Ying rinsed in the field’s “rain,” changed into clean clothes, and called the hands to haul ice. Loaded, it had to be moved to the shop at once; once the sun rose, it would begin to melt.

Many hands made light work—soon, over thirty crates were neatly stowed on the cart, and Tian Ju and Ma Zhandong took them to the shop.

Starting this month, Wang Ying had raised wages. When they first came and money was tight, it had been two hundred cash a month. Now, with the business on track, he raised each to one tael of silver—easier to save than scattered coins.

By the time everything was squared away, daylight had broken. Smoke curled from the kitchen; after washing up, the family gathered for breakfast.

Breakfast was simple—millet porridge with gray-flour steamed rolls, a dish of oil-braised pickles, a plate of cold tofu shreds, and a few boiled eggs.

Yuanbao sat on his little stool sipping porridge; Madam Li dabbed the starch from his chin with a handkerchief.

“Yuanbao is marvelous,” said Fang Ling. “So little and already feeding himself. Qinglan still wanted feeding at his age.”

Madam Li glanced at Wang Ying. In truth, Yuanbao had been fed by servants, but Wang Ying forbade it—said hand-feeding would spoil him—and she hadn’t dared gainsay him.

Since feeding himself, the child did eat noticeably more.

Wang Ying had little appetite—only one bowl of porridge. After breakfast, he told his son to be good at home and set off for the shop.

Mornings were leisurely—few came for popsicles and shaved ice. After the Hour of Si(9-11am), customers arrived.

“Boss—ten bamboo-tube pops!”

“Coming!” Lin Sui hurriedly lifted ten tubes. “How would you like to carry them?”

“In my shirt pocket is fine.”

He placed them in the man’s fold. “Kindly—one hundred cash.”

The customer unfastened a string of coins—exactly one hundred.

Selling popsicles wasn’t hard; counting was tedious—one coin at a time, and buyers paid in singles.

Lin Sui stowed the cash—

“Thirty bamboo pops—put them in my basket.”

He fetched and filled—

Tian Ju was pounding shaved ice. He was strong—three blows and a bowl emerged.

Wang Ying had no idle hands—peeling fruit and dicing into small crocks for quick topping.

As the queue swelled, he wiped his brow and began directing order.

Near noon, two ladies came with a child in gauze to buy shaved ice.

Because most were buying popsicles and shaved ice had no queue, the three passed through into the shop.

Those in line grumbled. “What’s this? We’ve waited forever—how can they go in first!”

“Yeah! We’ve stood under the blazing sun for half an hour—heads spinning.”

Wang Ying hurried to explain. “Please don’t worry—those customers are buying shaved ice; that line is short and doesn’t require waiting.”

But impatience heard no reason. “You bully customers—big spenders first and small fry left out.”

“Right! The poor man’s money isn’t money?”

Dozens raised a ruckus—Wang Ying’s head throbbed. This was not how it was—

Some turned to leave; others tried to squeeze forward for speed.

One man couldn’t hold the tide—scores surged into the room. The child burst into tears; the two maids turned ashen.

“What are you doing! If our young master is crushed, none will escape blame!”

Sweat streamed down Wang Ying’s face—soothing the gentlefolk while helping Lin Sui sell. In the end, he stopped counting and tossed coins into a box—just get the sticks into hands and people out the door.

After nearly an hour of frenzy, the crowd thinned. Wang Ying had Tian Ju bar the door.

“Sister-in-law—seven crates left. Not selling?”

He slumped onto a stool. “No. This afternoon, have Ma Qianzi take them to the streets.”

This wouldn’t do. Not to mention any loss from miscounted change—how could shaved ice sell in such crush? What lady of means or young lord would cram in with a mob of men for a treat?

Even if they sent servants, seeing such a scene twice would keep them away.

He still meant to develop new flavors—who would buy them?

Lin Sui, new to trade, still saw the problem. Someone had tried to pass off four cash as ten—caught only because the shortfall was great.

“What should we do, Sister-in-law?”

Wang Ying thought a bit. “We’ll have to rent another shop—separate the iced drinks and popsicles.”

Popsicles, mass route; iced drinks and shaved ice, premium route—like modern milk tea and coffee houses. That way, popsicles wouldn’t suffer, and a new high-end clientele could be drawn.

Come winter, easy—switch to hot drinks. Teahouses in the city mostly serve men; their shop could aim at women, gē’er, and children.

Wang Ying was a man of action; decision made, he began looking for a shop.

—

Meanwhile, in a teahouse on the northwest of Zhengyang Street, two middle-aged men were playing chess.

One was a small, thin man with a face of hard lines, eyes like a rat’s, and a slightly upturned nose—not flattering looks. This was Wei Linshui, Jizhou’s biggest ice dealer.

His nickname was “Water Rat,” though none dared call him that to his face. The name stuck behind his back—for his looks and his nature: dark and vicious. In earlier years, to seize the city’s ice trade, his ruthlessness had made jaws drop.

Opposite sat the teahouse keeper—one of Wei’s few close friends; they often played together.

“I’ve lost,” said Shopkeeper Bi as he gathered the pieces. “Old Wei—your chess grows stronger.”

“You were holding back, weren’t you?”

“Win and still pretend.”

Wei grinned, baring jagged teeth—looking every bit the sinister rodent his epithet suggested.

“Right—about that shop we discussed—anything behind it?”

Wei sipped tea. “Found out. That ‘nephew’ of the Assistant Prefect has no kin at all—their ancestral home is hundreds of li off. There is an official uncle, but far off in Shanzhou—ten-thousand eight-thousand li away—not worth a thought.”

“So—you’re ready to move on them?”

“I already sent men to test last night. Heh—one little stir and they panicked. Today, the shop didn’t even dare open.”

So it had not been coincidence—the commotion was ordered by Wei to sabotage Wang Ying’s popsicle trade.

Better to head off a future foe—even if Wang Ying hadn’t yet sold ice by the block, the trade must be blocked.

“I’ve tasted their popsicles,” said Shopkeeper Bi. “Ten cash a stick—how do they profit?”

Harvesting ice is hard; storing it, harder. City ice always runs dear.

Wei snorted. “That so-called ‘Mi Xue Ice Shā’—dragging prices that low. How am I to do business? And anyway, is ice for the rabble? If the common ruck can enjoy ice in summer, what are the gentry to have?”

“You have a point—so what now?”

“A small shop, that’s all. A few more disturbances and their trade will sour.”