Chapter Seven: The First Pot of Gold

Half a month later, Chen Guangliang encountered a passenger—a man wearing glasses, with a refined appearance, clutching several books.

"Little Master... Xiafei Road, Aisigong Apartments."

"Alright, sir."

Incredible—he actually lived on Xiafei Road.

That street, later known as Huaihai Middle Road, was famous in those days as the residence of Shanghai’s wealthy elite.

In later works like "Shanghai Beach," the character Ding Li constantly dreamed of moving to Xiafei Road.

"Sir, are you a university professor?"

"Little Master, why do you say that?"

Zhang Qihua sat in the rickshaw, watching the young rickshaw puller, Chen Guangliang, with great interest, for his guess was correct.

"Others usually call us 'rickshaw men' or 'little rickshaw men,' but you called me 'Little Master,' which shows you are a cultured scholar. After all, you’re carrying so many books... plus, from our daily encounters, we’ve learned to make a few educated guesses."

Zhang Qihua felt a surge of sympathy and quietly resolved to give Chen a generous fare.

"You all have a tough life and deserve respect. Yes, I do teach at a university."

"Have you published any articles? Have you ever written about us rickshaw pullers?"

Though Chen was probing into Zhang’s private affairs, he did so discreetly, without being intrusive or offensive.

Zhang assumed Chen was merely concerned about society’s attention to rickshaw pullers and their plight.

"I have published some articles, but none about rickshaw pullers. Frankly, I don’t know much about your profession. Writing hastily without understanding wouldn’t be appropriate," Zhang replied with some embarrassment.

Society’s concern for those at the bottom was indeed insufficient.

"Sir, as far as I know, Hu Shi and Lu Xun both wrote about rickshaw pullers, but from the intellectual’s perspective, looking down with sympathy—they never truly delved into the heart and soul of the pullers’ lives."

Zhang was surprised. "Young man, you’ve read their works?"

It was astonishing that a rickshaw puller possessed such insight.

"I’ve read some, though I can’t afford many books. Mostly I read newspapers... By the way, would you be interested in writing a novel about us rickshaw pullers? I believe it could leave a significant mark in modern literary history. Even abroad, there would be great interest because our group is large, tragic, and representative of the social underclass."

For a literati, writing about the social underbelly was key to fame, reflecting a heart concerned with the nation and its people.

Zhang nodded, then smiled wryly. "I’m afraid if I try, I won’t reach the heights of Hu Shi or Lu Xun, nor truly understand your profession."

Yet a flicker of inspiration stirred within him.

Seizing the moment, Chen stopped and pulled out a manuscript he had recently written.

"Sir, I’ve prepared some materials. Would you mind taking a look?"

“Certainly.”

Zhang was soon engrossed in Chen’s writing—about ten thousand words.

"This looks more like an outline and research notes?"

"Yes, my writing is poor. I only made an outline and compiled materials."

Zhang sighed, "The narrative is very good, with deep character portrayals. If developed into a full-length story, it would be an excellent piece of modern literature."

Finally, he had met a kindred spirit.

During this period, Chen had subtly tested many passengers; none suited him better than Zhang Qihua.

Moreover, Zhang was the first to see his manuscript.

"I want to sell this material to you!" Chen declared.

Zhang never expected such a stroke of fortune.

He liked the story and materials but hadn’t dared to say so.

"Sell it to me?"

They had just arrived at the apartment. Chen set down the rickshaw and faced Zhang.

"Yes. With my writing skills, it wouldn’t meet publishing standards. But I am confident in the material and story. As a university professor, you could truly bring it to life. Whether for royalties or social concern, it won’t disappoint you."

Zhang was in his early thirties, still young, and though tempted by the honor, he restrained his desire.

"I can guide you a bit. You’ve clearly done a lot of work and research."

"I just want the money to buy my own rickshaw. I can’t write a good article. Please just consider it as research material, a good subject—no pressure."

Zhang blushed, surprised that a teenager had seen through him.

"How much do you want?"

"Two hundred yuan, less than a month’s salary for you."

Chen felt uneasy—he had asked quite a high price.

"Aren’t you afraid I might take your story and not pay?"

"No, you’re not that kind of person."

Having decided to buy, Zhang voiced a concern: "I do worry you might sell it to others."

"Sir, university teachers and literati are rare for us to meet. From my writing and story, you can see I’m not the type to do that."

Chen wasn’t worried Zhang would back out—he could sell to others if needed. But if Zhang paid, he would honor the deal.

Zhang looked over the papers again, confirming they were the materials he wanted, then said:

"Alright... Take me to the bank, and I’ll get the money for you."

...

Chen never dreamed that an outline for "Camel Xiangzi" would sell for two hundred yuan so easily.

Originally, he had asked for a high price!

Even if Zhang had bargained down to fifty yuan, he would have agreed.

In the end, Zhang readily paid two hundred yuan, demanding Chen never sell the material to anyone else. They even signed a contract kept by Zhang.

No matter what, when Chen returned to Fangua Alley, he held a bank deposit slip for one hundred fifty yuan and fifty yuan in cash.

After changing into clean clothes, he went to his second uncle Yang Qingshan’s home.

"Second Uncle, come inside."

"Alright."

The small room was cramped; they sat directly on the bed.

"Second Uncle, look!"

Chen pulled out fifty yuan, stunning Yang Qingshan.

Trembling, Yang asked, "Guangliang, have you done something illegal?"

Fifty yuan was a sum their family had saved for years; how could his nephew have so much?

"Second Uncle, I received support from a university professor. This money is clean."

"Really? That’s wonderful! Now we can pool resources to buy a rickshaw."

Chen dropped another bombshell: "Don’t rush, Second Uncle. This professor supported me with two hundred yuan total. One hundred fifty is in the Shanghai Commercial Savings Bank. I plan to invite more partners so we can buy two rickshaws."

"Two? That many?"

Yang was shocked by both his nephew’s ambition and luck.

"Yes, I calculated it. One rickshaw costs just over one hundred yuan. Adding licensing and bribes, it might be one hundred twenty yuan total. Two rickshaws will cost two hundred forty yuan. Dividing shares at twelve yuan each, that’s twenty shares total... so we need to bring in others."

Step by step—the key was gathering 'momentum' before 'money.'

Like-minded partners would provide that momentum.

Yang scratched the back of his head, smiling awkwardly: "What you say confuses me a bit. But you’re the boss. I can put in fifty yuan as my share."

His nephew had changed a lot in the past month, and he trusted him.

"Good, then let’s quit our jobs for now."