“Dad, why did you go to the temple to eat?”

　　“If I don’t go to Tianfei Temple, where else would I go?” Mr. Turner glared: “Are you still suspicious of Master Clark? He really is a high monk who enjoys helping others. Don’t always judge people with such a dirty mind. Your father wanted to set up a calligraphy stall, but I didn’t have any brushes, ink, paper, inkstone, or even a table and chairs. Just then, I ran into a little novice by the master’s side. Not long after, he invited me in. We chatted for a while, and after the master learned about my situation, he lent me a table and chairs for free, and even gave me a brand new set of brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone. He even marked out the best spot at the temple gate for me to set up my stall. What a great favor! When we make it big, we must never forget this.”

　　Has he really changed?

　　William Turner looked at his father with deep suspicion. “Did Edward Clark ask you to pay a stall fee? Like, maybe half of your daily earnings go to Tianfei Temple?”

　　“Bang!”

　　Mr. Turner was truly angry now, and slammed the table in a fit of rage.

　　“William, you’re still so young, how can you always assume the worst of people? No matter what, there are always more good people in the world. Edward Clark the master didn’t ask me for a single coin. Remember, there’s no such thing as a stall fee!”

　　The sun must really be rising in the west. Seeing his father like this, even William Turner couldn’t help but believe it.

　　“You really didn’t have to do anything, and he just gave you the brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone?”

　　“Well, not exactly!” Mr. Turner sighed and said, “Edward Clark the master just arrived at Tianfei Temple. The paint and murals inside, the couplets and calligraphy, they’ve all faded or fallen off. Many Buddhist scriptures have been eaten by bugs or chewed by mice, incomplete and damaged, and all need to be recopied. The master’s table was piled high with them. I saw how hard he was working and offered to help him copy the scriptures. You have to remember, I volunteered, the master never asked me!”

　　“That’s the same thing! Why don’t you think about it—why did he put them right in front of you? Isn’t it all just for show!”

　　William Turner finally exploded, after listening for so long, he thought they’d met a good person, but it turned out this was the catch!

　　“Dad, how many pieces did you write at your stall today?”

　　“Two family letters, earned twenty copper coins, bought pig’s head meat for three coins, so there’s seventeen left.” As Mr. Turner spoke, he took out the coins and put them on the table. “Take it, buy some buns for breakfast tomorrow.”

　　William Turner was completely exasperated. “Dad, don’t you get it? Let me ask you, how much is a Buddhist scripture worth?”

　　“Well, how would I know? But Buddhist scriptures should be more expensive than the Four Books and Five Classics. After all, they’re rarely printed and published. Maybe one or two taels of silver!”

　　“So how much did you copy today?”

　　“I copied half of the Earth Store Sutra this afternoon.”

　　“There you go!” William Turner clapped his hands hard, startling Mr. Turner.

　　“William, don’t always be so jumpy. I did it of my own free will.”

　　“That’s what they call ‘the fisherman waits for the willing fish.’” William Turner sat on the edge of the bed, cheeks puffed out in anger, counting on his fingers: “Half a Buddhist scripture, even if it’s just eight-tenths of a tael of silver, converted to copper coins, that’s at least six or seven hundred coins—thirty times what you made today!”

　　Mr. Turner had never thought of it that way, but hearing his son’s reasoning, he couldn’t help but ponder. It did seem to make sense. Could it be that the real profit was all taken by Edward Clark? No matter what, he just couldn’t label that kind and friendly monk as an exploiter.

　　So Mr. Turner simply hugged his head and played ostrich.

　　“Anyway, no one forced me. I wanted to write.”

　　“That’s exactly where Edward Clark is cunning!” William Turner gritted his teeth. “A gentleman can be deceived by his own honesty. That old monk has you right where he wants you!”

Chapter 5: The Way to Make Money

　　“William, I thought about it all night.” Mr. Turner said, eyes red. “Maybe you’re right, but I can’t stop going to Tianfei Temple!”

　　“Why? You know it’s a trap, so why jump in?” William Turner asked, puzzled.

　　Mr. Turner sighed and gave a bitter smile. “William, making money isn’t easy. Yesterday, while I was at my stall, I saw people fighting over spots—almost to the point of killing each other. If it weren’t for the monks at Tianfei Temple stepping in, I wouldn’t even have a place to set up.”

　　No rainbow without a storm. After a day of hardship, Mr. Turner seemed to have matured a lot.

　　“No matter if Edward Clark the master is truly kind or has some ulterior motive, I have no choice. Writing a few more characters doesn’t tire me out, and I can treat it as calligraphy practice. William, I’m a man—I have to support this family and raise my son!”

　　After saying this, Mr. Turner got up and quickly went downstairs. He didn’t want his son to see the tears at the corners of his eyes. Mr. Turner didn’t hate Edward Clark; on the contrary, he was deeply grateful to the master. No matter what, as long as he, Henry Turner, could earn money and feed his son, the whole meaning of life was to raise his child to adulthood.

　　He hated himself—for being so useless! He couldn’t even find a decent job. “A scholar is useless for anything but reading”—that was him, a good-for-nothing!

　　Mr. Turner quietly wiped away his tears, lifted his head as if nothing had happened, grinned, and quickly left the alley. From now on, after copying half a scripture each day, he’d spend the rest of the time at his stall writing. The earlier he arrived, the more time he’d have left, and the more money he could make...