New York, factory office.
"Mr. Allen's telegram," a clerk presented the translated message to Catherine.
Catherine quickly scanned it, and the tense expression on her face, which had been there for several days, finally relaxed.
She immediately summoned Jones and Bill, the two individuals responsible for production and raw materials.
"Mr. Allen's telegram."
Catherine's voice carried a hint of joy.
"He succeeded; the first batch of five hundred live cattle has already departed from Kansas. He chartered a train, and they are expected to arrive in New York within ten days."
"That's great!"
Corporal Jones excitedly clapped his hands.
"Five hundred cattle! This will keep our raw materials stocked for at least half a month. The workers won't have to worry about the factory shutting down due to lack of meat!"
"It's more than just half a month!"
Bill's face also showed a relieved smile.
"That kid Allen is a devil; I was just getting overwhelmed by that alliance of wholesalers, and he just air-dropped reinforcements from the sky for us!"
"So, Miss Catherine, does Mr. Allen have any further instructions?" Jones asked.
"Yes."
Catherine's expression, which had been smiling, became serious again.
"Mr. Allen's instructions are clear. Bill, your purchasing work in New York is to continue. But do not engage in any more price wars with the wholesaler alliance. If they raise prices, we will buy small quantities to maintain the illusion that we are 'short on cash.' Our main task is to mislead them, to make them think we are still in this small pond of New York, fighting a tough tug-of-war with them."
"Understood." Bill nodded, "It's just acting, and I'm good at that."
"Jones." Catherine turned to the production manager.
"Factory production must be maintained at maximum intensity. We need to pile up finished goods in the warehouse. Mr. Allen said that when our 'Roman Legion' arrives in New York, he will need enough 'ammunition' to welcome an unprecedented great victory."
Meanwhile, in Chicago, Allen's game entered its next phase.
He invited Charles Reeves, the stubborn owner of the railroad company, to his hotel suite for dinner.
"Mr. Williams."
Reeves's face carried a long-lost, reborn glow.
"I must say, your freight payment was truly a godsend. My workers have all received two months of overdue wages. My oldest 'Pioneer' locomotive finally has the money for a thorough overhaul."
"I'm glad I could offer you a little help, Mr. Reeves."
Allen poured him a glass of whiskey.
"In fact, I hope this is just a small beginning to our long-term cooperation."
"Long-term cooperation?"
A flicker of longing passed through Reeves's eyes.
"Yes," Allen said, "The first batch of cattle was just a test. My factory needs at least two thousand cattle every month. I hope your railroad can become my exclusive transportation artery from Chicago to New York."
Reeves's heart pounded violently.
But then he thought of something and shook his head bitterly.
"Mr. Williams, I appreciate your generosity. But I'm afraid this will be very difficult."
"Why?"
"Because those people have already noticed us."
Reeves's tone became solemn.
"The day after your train left Chicago, representatives from the Eastern Railroad Alliance approached me. They offered a very high price to acquire my company."
"Then I assume you refused them."
Allen took a sip of his drink, a smile in his eyes as he spoke.
"Of course."
Reeves's face showed the stubbornness and pride characteristic of an engineer.
"I told them my railroad is not a commodity for speculation. It is my life's work."
"And then?"
"Then they bared their fangs."
A flash of anger crossed Reeves's eyes.
"They threatened me, saying that if I insisted on cooperating with you, they would use every means to deal with me. They would make sure my trains could never find an available track once they entered their jurisdiction. They would also stop my coal suppliers from providing me with coal. They want to completely paralyze my railroad."
Allen listened quietly.
All of this was within his expectations.
Then he suddenly asked a seemingly unrelated question.
"Mr. Reeves, why do you so stubbornly operate a company that is constantly losing money? With your talent, you could become a top-tier engineer at any major railroad company, earning the highest salary."
This question seemed to touch the softest part of Reeves's heart.
He was silent for a long time before slowly speaking: "Because I hate them, Mr. Williams."
"I hate those bankers, those speculators. They don't understand engineering, they don't understand machinery, they don't understand how many sleepers a railway track needs to be laid securely. They only understand one thing: monopoly.
They use capital to form alliances, stifle all competition, and then brazenly charge exorbitant and unreasonable freight fees to the merchants and farmers who painstakingly transport their goods to the station."
"I once saw a wheat farmer from Kansas who, unable to afford the freight fees, could only watch as his entire year's harvest of wheat rotted in the station warehouse."
Tears welled in Reeves's eyes.
"From that moment on, I swore that I would build a fair and free railroad that belongs to us practical people."
Allen looked at this respectable, idealistic old man before him.
He knew he had found a perfect and most steadfast ally.
"Mr. Reeves."
Allen's tone also became elevated and full of power.
"Please rest assured, they cannot scare us. Because our war will not only be fought on the tracks."
"I hope it will truly be as you say, Mr. Williams."
After seeing Reeves off, Allen immediately summoned his stockbroker, Blackwood.
"Good evening, Mr. Williams."
Blackwood's face always wore that calm, unruffled expression.
"The funds in your account are steadily decreasing at a very healthy rate."
"How is the progress?"
"Everything is going smoothly."
Blackwood took out a report from his briefcase.
"The market is still like stagnant water. I have quietly acquired six percent of the shares of the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company."
"Very good." Allen nodded, "But now, I need you to do something for me that has nothing to do with stocks."
"Oh?"
"I need you to find me a journalist."
"A journalist?" Blackwood was a bit surprised, "Are you planning to announce your acquisition plan? That's not a good move."
"Quite the opposite. I need a journalist who can keep my secrets."
"Someone who works for a newspaper that's about to go bankrupt, who is dissatisfied with reality, and full of hatred for those railroad magnates. A frustrated columnist whose loyalty can be bought with money, a pen for hire."
Blackwood looked at Allen, and ripples appeared in his calm, lake-like eyes.
He instantly understood Allen's intention.
"You… you're not planning to fight a financial war with them in the stock exchange," he said with some difficulty, "You're planning to start a war of public opinion."
"Yes."
A smile appeared on Allen's face.
"The Eastern Railroad Alliance wants to use commercial means to strangle Mr. Reeves. So I will use the media to turn this commercial strangulation into a touching story of 'greedy monopoly magnates ruthlessly suppressing a respectable independent hero who speaks for the people.'"
"A story that can make the people of Chicago, and even all of America, furious."
Blackwood looked at Allen, not speaking for a long time.
Finally, he also smiled.
"Mr. Williams, I'm starting to enjoy working for you. Let me think."
He thought carefully for a moment, then said.
"There's someone who fits your description, Fowler of the Chicago Chronicle. A genius who's almost drowned in whiskey. He hates the railroad magnates because his father was driven to bankruptcy by them."
"That's excellent." Light gleamed in Allen's eyes.