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Someone in the Mutual Aid Society had starved to death.
The dead man was an old craftsman from the slums, a skilled shoemaker, an honest, quiet old man.
When machine-made shoes became the norm in Intis's modern factories, his handmade shoe shop quickly went bankrupt. Within two years, he could no longer afford to live in an ordinary neighborhood and moved into the slums with his only grandson, continuing to make shoes.
Richard stood stunned for a long time when he heard the news. He wiped at the greasy grime on his face but failed to remove it. Looking at the old shoemaker's grandson, who was making arrangements for his grandfather's funeral, he asked, "I told you that you could come to me when you ran out of food at home. Why didn't you and your grandfather come?"
"Ernst, you supported Grandfather's business by ordering ten pairs of shoes and paying the deposits for all of them in advance. Grandfather didn't want to ask you to lend us food."
"He would rather starve than borrow food?"
"You're the only person willing to share food with us. If everyone who couldn't survive came to borrow from you, what would you do?" The boy, eleven or twelve years old, had already taken over his grandfather's work and shouldered his toolbox. He looked up at the tall Richard, his blue eyes shining. "I saw you. You're not a servant employed by a noble. You have to go to the factory, shine shoes, and buy newspapers, working seven jobs to earn enough to buy this bread."
"But..."
"Our lives aren't worth mentioning. Neither the noble lords nor His Majesty the King cares about us. You're not a god. You don't need to value us so much. Please don't bring up lending us food