The air in the Watery Lane betting shop vibrated with the raw energy of a Friday morning in mid-March 1919.
Heavy boots ground against the wooden floorboards as punters, their voices thick with local accents, barked out their wagers over the insistent clinking of shillings.
In the dimly lit back room, a slender figure, Finn Shelby, was perched on an upturned crate, a well-thumbed copy of Thomas Purvis's The Elements of Mechanical Engineering resting open on his lap.
Finn had devised a swift and ingenious solution; two ordinary tin cans, each concealing a clutch of genuine betting slips were his secret weapons, strategically placed five and eight paces from the shop's entrance, nestled in a shadowed nook and beneath a stack of discarded crates.
In a single afternoon, with the aid of a few well-placed sticks, sacks, and stones for camouflage, he'd secured his hidden reserves.
He'd then enlisted Alfie, the shop's quiet errand boy, promising him a farthing for each retrieval come Monday.
The clerks meanwhile, were instructed to swap in dummy slips, the genuine bets signaled by a discreet knuckle-tap – two quick taps followed by a slower one.
Now, the gamble had paid off.
Punters were back with their coins forming satisfying piles, and the shop breathed once more.
Lost in the intricacies of combustion engines, Finn's remarkably quick mind devoured the technical details.
His ambition stretched far beyond simply rescuing the family business.
He envisioned a future where his ingenuity fueled his own legitimate enterprise, centered around the burgeoning world of automobiles; repairing engines, trading parts and even selling entire motorcars one day.
The factories of Birmingham were already churning out the skeletal frames of these new machines, and Finn saw his place within that industrious landscape, a world away from the fickle fortunes of betting slips.
The book's detailed diagrams – pistons gliding within cylinders, the precise choreography of valves – illuminated his understanding, revealing the inner workings of an engine.
Nearby, Mick, a burly clerk with perpetually ink-stained fingers, grunted as he sorted through a stack of red betting slips.
"Your cans are holding, Finn," he acknowledged with a hint of grudging respect in his voice.
A faint smile touched Finn's lips, his gaze still fixed on a detailed illustration of a crankshaft.
He'd instructed Alfie the previous evening, his words cutting through the boy's mumbled complaints about aching feet, to pay close attention to the brick in the nook and the plank atop the crates.
A tight, curved fit meant security; anything loose or askew spelled trouble.
Alfie's silent nod under the twilight had been reassurance enough.
Finn observed the shop's renewed rhythm with a keen eye; Mick's methodical sorting, Alfie's impending runs, the steady influx of punters' coins. It was like an engine, he mused, each component working in precise harmony.
A sudden shout sliced through the familiar din. "Tap's good, yeah?" Joe, a broad-shouldered factory worker leaned heavily on the counter demonstrating the knuckle-tap – two quick and one slow, though his execution was slightly hesitant.
Mick accepted Joe's shilling with a curt nod. "Safe, Joe."
Finn glanced up, watching as Joe confidently placed another coin on the counter with a wide grin splitting his face.
Only yesterday, Joe had been among the most vocal skeptics, demanding irrefutable proof of the shop's integrity.
Finn had obliged, gesturing towards the loose straw near the nook, carefully avoiding revealing the tin beneath, and simply stated, "Your bet's yours."
Now, Joe was back, followed by a small stream of other previously hesitant punters, their coins landing on the counter with satisfying thuds.
Finn's hidden stashes had worked their magic; the ledger already showed a twelve-shilling increase.
The back door creaked open, and William, another clerk, wiry and quick-moving, entered, a fresh smudge of ink darkening his index finger. "Finn, got blues to swap. Your nook better be tight."
Finn met his gaze, his expression calm and assured. "Swap at noon, William. It's tight." William grunted in acknowledgment, snatching a handful of dummy slips.
Finn's mind raced, not with youthful impulsiveness, but with a sharp, analytical focus: William's timely swaps, Mick's growing piles of coins, Joe's renewed faith – all were integral parts of his intricate machine.
He recalled a sentence from the book: "Power is control."
He currently controlled the flow of genuine bets and he knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within him, that one day he would control a garage, the resonant hum of perfectly tuned engines a testament to his own ingenuity.
Outside, the carefree laughter of children drifted in – Billy and Sal, their game of tossing pebbles keeping unwitting snoops away from the strategically placed crates.
Finn had subtly manipulated their play yesterday, tossing a stray stone to draw their attention to the area.
Now, their innocent noise served as an unintentional shield, a small but significant victory.
He returned to his reading, his eyes scanning the diagrams of fuel pumps, visualizing the inner workings of a car – carburetors, belts, intricate networks of pipes .
The open ledger on the counter displayed the steady climb of bets, Finn's personal tally is clear: twelve shillings up, with the promise of more to come.
"Finn, c'mere!" Joe's booming voice interrupted his concentration. Finn carefully tucked the engineering book under his makeshift stool and stepped towards the counter.
Joe stood with a companion, a lean quiet man who tentatively performed the knuckle-tap – two quick, one slow – before placing a shilling on the counter.
"Your tap's solid, kid," Joe said, clapping Finn on the shoulder with a surprising gentleness.
Finn simply nodded. "Keep it tight, Joe." The shop seemed to swell with noise; the scrape of boots and the jingle of coins, and the rising tide of voices, as more punters crowded the counter eager to place their bets, the ledgers steadily filling.
Finn retrieved his book, settling back into his corner.
His hyperlearning continued to work, the principles of his small-scale operation resonating with the clear explanations in the text.