It was pleasantly warm that afternoon of 1884, the sun delightfully and unusually bright on the London thoroughfare in the East End.The street was bustling with vendors and carriages and the surrounding buildings were worn down and battered with age and neglect. An apple cart stood on the corner with a bent old woman beside it. Though her red apples were often the shiniest and most colorful things on the entire street, at that moment there were three things equally as colorful and shined.
Standing unconsciously in identical poses were three flamboyantly dressed gentlemen, their top hats tilted on their heads and their canes held on their right sides. Against the downtrodden and aged environment of Borough Road, their brightly colored waistcoats and cravats made them stand out like peacocks on gravel. Like true gentlemen, they held their heads high and wore their colorful clothes with dignity. The hard glares or questioning glances that they received from the people who passed by were either ignored or the gentlemen were immune to it. In each of their hands were partially eaten apples as they each enjoyed the food. Though they were contentedly eating, one of them would occasionally look angrily at the man who stood in the center of the trio. At last he could take no more. Lifting his cane, he knocked the other fellows hat off.
“Abram!” he cursed as he went after his hat. Picking it off the dirty street, he attentively began to wipe it with his sleeve. “Might I ask what possessed you to do something as dastardly as that?”
Lord Ian Abram, was a man with tall blonde hair, fluffed to increase his already tall stature. He stood quite unashamed by his actions and stared haughtily at the other man.
“Oh, you know damn well, Derry.” He took another bite of his apple.
“I damn well do not!” Said Darnell as he propped the hat back over his black hair. “A*s.” He returned to his apple.
It was not an unusual sight to see Baron Derry Darnell in a huff. In fact, he was in such a state more often than not and usually without good reason. Unlike Abram, Darnell's hair was of coal black, combed down with either expensive oil or lack of bathing. Meanwhile, the third gentleman, Lord Christopher Crowther, still held his own apple in one hand, and with the other took his monocle from his coat pocket to put it over his right eye. With his monocle in place, he and the aged apple lady exchanged glances and shrugs before looking back to the quarreling men with mild interest. Without so much as a warning, Abram repeated the action of using his can to knock off Darnell’s hat. This time, however, when Darnell stooped to pick it up, Abram pushed the end of his cane into Darnell’s left buttock, nearly knocking him onto his head.
Though Crowther and the apple woman laughed, Darnell was not amused.
“Confound you Abram! What is wrong with you?”
“You know damn-”
“I do not know damn well, damn you!”
“Your hat,” Abram said calmly. “It's mine.”
“We made a bargain to alternate hats, you forget.” Darnell tugged his hat to put it back at its rakish tilt.
“Yes, and I specifically said I was going to wear the chocolate hat today.”
“You did not.”
“I did so.”
“I think not.”
“I think so.”
“I'm certain not!”
“I'm certain so!”
“You may wear it tomorrow then. It is my hat today, Abram.” Darnell said with finality as he again bit into his apple.
“Ha!” Abram said petulantly before strolling in front of Darnell and striking a pose, the apple still in one hand. “Take a close gander, Derry.”
Darnell looked with boredom at him. “Yes. You still look like an a*s.”
“I am wearing my mahogany coat!” He roared. “With a tan hat! I may as well dress as a clown and wear that polka dot cravat of yours!”
“I'm fond that cravat,” Darnell said with a frown. “And I like this hat with my coat. I'll not trade hats.”
Abram stomped his foot and looked to Lord Crowther who had been silent all the while. “Crowther! Be the mediator!”
Crowther’s cheek was bulged with apple bites, and roughly swallowing it, he glanced between his friends who looked eagerly at him.
“He did get the hat first, Abram.” Was his simple reply.
Darnell grinned and Abram huffed.
“Oh, I am not satisfied with that. Indeed I am not,” said Abram. “Shall we flip a coin on it?”
“That’s impossible," grumbled Darnell.
“Oh? Afraid luck will be on my side?” Jeered Abram with a twist of his brushy mustache.
“No, we gave our last penny to the apple lady,” Darnell said as he pointed over his shoulder to the old woman.
“I know!” Said Crowther with a smile. “I am thinking of a number between one and eleven and whomever guesses the closest number will wear the hat!”
“Why not ten?” Asked Darnell. “It’s more ideal, don't you agree?”
“But it isn't an even number,” Crowther replied simply. “I can't very well use a number that is unbalanced.”
Crowther was infamous for his unorthodox views on numbers and his friends had heard of it enough to know not to reproach him on it. And so, Darnell rolled his eyes and decided not the get into it further.
“Never mind. I'll be an extremist and guess eleven.”
“Oh, you are soo clever aren't you?” Hissed Abram. Raising his brows haughtily he said with a smile. “I choose the number one.”
Crowther opened his mouth and his eyes seemed to go blank as he looked between them.
“Well?” Asked Abram. “Who has the more accurate conjecture?”
Letting the monocle drop from his eye to suspend from the ribbon, Crowther took a bite of his apple. After a long pause of chewing and swallowing, he cleared his throat.
“Neither. I chose the number six.”
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