Various - "Atlantic Monthly, Vol. IV, No. 26, December, 1859"

Douglas Houghton Campbell - "Elements of Structural and Systematic Botany"

E. Phillips Oppenheim - "The Great Secret "

John Burroughs - "The Wit of a Duck and Other Papers"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Blindfolded

E >> Earle Ashley Walcott >> Blindfolded



Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Joshua Hutchinson, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team



BLINDFOLDED

By

EARLE ASHLEY WALCOTT







CONTENTS


CHAPTER

I A DANGEROUS ERRAND
II A CRY FOR HELP
III A QUESTION IN THE NIGHT
IV A CHANGE OF NAME
V DODDRIDGE KNAPP
VI A NIGHT AT BORTON'S
VII MOTHER BORTON
VIII IN WHICH I MEET A FEW SURPRISES
IX A DAY IN THE MARKET
X A TANGLE OF SCHEMES
XI THE DEN OF THE WOLF
XII LUELLA KNAPP
XIII A DAY OF GRACE
XIV MOTHER BORTON'S ADVICE
XV I AM IN THE TOILS
XVI AN ECHO OF WARNING
XVII IN A FOREIGN LAND
XVIII THE BATTLE IN THE MAZE
XIX A DEAL IN STOCKS
XX MAKING PROGRESS
XXI AT THE BIDDING OF THE UNKNOWN
XXII TRAILED
XXIII A PIECE OF STRATEGY
XXIV ON THE ROAD
XXV A FLUTTER IN THE MARKET
XXVI A VISION OF THE NIGHT
XXVII A LINK IN THE CHAIN
XXVIII THE CHASE IN THE STORM
XXIX THE HEART OF THE MYSTERY
XXX THE END OF THE JOURNEY
XXXI THE REWARD




BLINDFOLDED




CHAPTER I

A DANGEROUS ERRAND


A city of hills with a fringe of houses crowning the lower heights;
half-mountains rising bare in the background and becoming real
mountains as they stretched away in the distance to right and left; a
confused mass of buildings coming to the water's edge on the flat; a
forest of masts, ships swinging in the stream, and the streaked,
yellow, gray-green water of the bay taking a cold light from the
setting sun as it struggled through the wisps of fog that fluttered
above the serrated sky-line of the city--these were my first
impressions of San Francisco.

The wind blew fresh and chill from the west with the damp and salt of
the Pacific heavy upon it, as I breasted it from the forward deck of
the ferry steamer, _El Capitan_. As I drank in the air and was
silent with admiration of the beautiful panorama that was spread before
me, my companion touched me on the arm.

"Come into the cabin," he said. "You'll be one of those fellows who
can't come to San Francisco without catching his death of cold, and
then lays it on to the climate instead of his own lack of common sense.
Come, I can't spare you, now I've got you here at last. I wouldn't lose
you for a million dollars."

"I'll come for half the money," I returned, as he took me by the arm
and led me into the close cabin.

My companion, I should explain, was Henry Wilton, the son of my
father's cousin, who had the advantages of a few years of residence in
California, and sported all the airs of a pioneer. We had been close
friends through boyhood and youth, and it was on his offer of
employment that I had come to the city by the Golden Gate.

"What a resemblance!" I heard a woman exclaim, as we entered the cabin.
"They must be twins."

"There, Henry," I whispered, with a laugh; "you see we are discovered."
Though our relationship was not close we had been cast in the mold of
some common ancestor. We were so nearly alike in form and feature as to
perplex all but our intimate acquaintances, and we had made the
resemblance the occasion of many tricks in our boyhood days.

Henry had heard the exclamation as well as I. To my surprise, it
appeared to bring him annoyance or apprehension rather than amusement.

"I had forgotten that it would make us conspicuous," he said, more to
himself than to me, I thought; and he glanced through the cabin as
though he looked for some peril.

"We were used to that long ago," I said, as we found a seat. "Is the
business ready for me? You wrote that you thought it would be in hand
by the time I got here."

"We can't talk about it here," he said in a low tone. "There is plenty
of work to be done. It's not hard, but, as I wrote you, it needs a man
of pluck and discretion. It's delicate business, you understand, and
dangerous if you can't keep your head. But the danger won't be yours.
I've got that end of it."

"Of course you're not trying to do anything against the law?" I said.

"Oh, it has nothing to do with the law," he replied with an odd smile.
"In fact, it's a little matter in which we are--well, you might say--
outside the law."

I gave a gasp at this disturbing suggestion, and Henry chuckled as he
saw the consternation written on my face. Then he rose and said:

"Come, the boat is getting in."

"But I want to know--" I began.

"Oh, bother your 'want-to-knows.' It's not against the law--just
outside it, you understand. I'll tell you more of it when we get to my
room. Give me that valise. Come along now." And as the boat entered the
slip we found ourselves at the front of the pressing crowd that is
always surging in and out of San Francisco by the gateway of the
Market-Street ferry.

As we pushed our way through the clamoring hack-drivers and hotel-
runners who blocked the entrance to the city, I was roused by a sudden
thrill of the instinct of danger that warns one when he meets the eye
of a snake. It was gone in an instant, but I had time to trace effect
to cause. The warning came this time from the eyes of a man, a lithe,
keen-faced man who flashed a look of triumphant malice on us as he
disappeared in the waiting-room of the ferry-shed. But the keen face,
and the basilisk glance were burned into my mind in that moment as
deeply as though I had known then what evil was behind them.

My companion swore softly to himself.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Don't look around," he said. "We are watched."

"The snake-eyed man?"

"Did you see him, too?" His manner was careless, but his tone was
troubled. "I thought I had given him the slip," he continued. "Well,
there's no help for it now."

"Are we to hunt for a hiding-place?" I asked doubtfully.

"Oh, no; not now. I was going to take you direct to my room. Now we are
going to a hotel with all the publicity we can get. Here we are."

"Internaytional! Internaytional!" shouted a runner by our side. "Yes,
sir; here you are, sir. Free 'bus, sir." And in another moment we were
in the lumbering coach, and as soon as the last lingering passenger had
come from the boat we were whirling over the rough pavement, through a
confusing maze of streets, past long rows of dingy, ugly buildings, to
the hotel.

Though the sun had but just set, the lights were glimmering in the
windows along Kearny Street as we stepped from the 'bus, and the
twilight was rapidly fading into darkness.

"A room for the night," ordered Henry, as we entered the hotel office
and saluted the clerk.

"Your brother will sleep with you?" inquired the clerk.

"Yes."

"That's right--if you are sure you can tell which is which in the
morning," said the clerk, with a smile at his poor joke.

Henry smiled in return, paid the bill, took the key, and we were shown
to our room. After removing the travel-stains, I declared myself quite
ready to dine.

"We won't need this again," said Henry, tossing the key on the bureau
as we left. "Or no, on second thought," he continued, "it's just as
well to leave the door locked. There might be some inquisitive
callers." And we betook ourselves to a hasty meal that was not of a
nature to raise my opinion of San Francisco.

"Are you through?" asked my companion, as I shook my head over a
melancholy piece of pie, and laid down my fork. "Well, take your bag.
This door--look pleasant and say nothing."

He led the way to the bar and then through a back room or two, until
with a turn we were in a blind alley. With a few more steps we found
ourselves in a back hall which led into another building. I became
confused after a little, and lost all idea of the direction in which we
were going. We mounted one flight of stairs, I remember, and after
passing through two or three winding hallways and down another flight,
came out on a side street.

After a pause to observe the street before we ventured forth, Henry
said:

"I guess we're all right now. We must chance it, anyhow." So we dodged
along in the shadow till we came to Montgomery Street, and after a
brief walk, turned into a gloomy doorway and mounted a worn pair of
stairs.

The house was three stories in height. It stood on the corner of an
alley, and the lower floor was intended for a store or saloon; but a
renting agent's sign and a collection of old show-bills ornamenting the
dirty windows testified that it was vacant. The liquor business
appeared to be overdone in that quarter, for across the alley, hardly
twenty feet away, was a saloon; across Montgomery Street was another;
and two more held out their friendly lights on the corner of the street
above.

In the saloons the disreputability was cheerful, and cheerfully
acknowledged with lights and noise, here of a broken piano, there of a
wheezy accordion, and, beyond, of a half-drunken man singing or
shouting a ribald song. Elsewhere it was sullen and dark,--the lights,
where there were lights, glittering through chinks, or showing the
outlines of drawn curtains.

"This isn't just the place I'd choose for entertaining friends," said
Henry, with a visible relief from his uneasiness, as we climbed the
worn and dirty stair.

"Oh, that's all right," I said, magnanimously accepting his apology.

"It doesn't have all the modern conveniences," admitted Henry as we
stumbled up the second flight, "but it's suitable to the business we
have in hand, and--"

"What's that?" I exclaimed, as a creaking, rasping sound came from the
hall below.

We stopped and listened, peering into the obscurity beneath.

Nothing but silence. The house might have been a tomb for any sign of
life that showed within it.

"It must have been outside," said Henry. "I thought for a moment
perhaps--" Then he checked himself. "Well, you'll know later," he
concluded, and opened the door of the last room on the right of the
hall.

As we entered, he held the door ajar for a full minute, listening
intently. The obscurity of the hall gave back nothing to eye or ear,
and at last he closed the door softly and touched a match to the gas.

The room was at the rear corner of the building. There were two
windows, one looking to the west, the other to the north and opening on
the narrow alley.

"Not so bad after you get in," said Henry, half as an introduction,
half as an apology.

"It's luxury after six days of railroading," I replied.

"Well, lie down there, and make the most of it, then," he said, "for
there may be trouble ahead." And he listened again at the crack of the
door.

"In Heaven's name, Henry, what's up?" I exclaimed with some temper.
"You're as full of mysteries as a dime novel."

Henry smiled grimly.

"Maybe you don't recognize that this is serious business," he said.

"I don't understand it at all."

"Well, I'm not joking. There's mischief afoot, and I'm in danger."

"From whom? From what?"

"Never mind that now. It's another person's business--not mine, you
understand--and I can't explain until I know whether you are to be one
of us or not."

"That's what I came for, isn't it?"

"Hm! You don't seem to be overly pleased with the job."

"Which isn't surprising, when I haven't the first idea what it is,
except that it seems likely to get me killed or in jail."

"Oh, if you're feeling that way about it, I know of another job that
will suit you better in--"

"I'm not afraid," I broke in hotly. "But I want to see the noose before
I put my head in it."

"Then I'm sure the assistant bookkeeper's place I have in mind will--"

"Confound your impudence!" I cried, laughing in spite of myself at the
way he was playing on me. "Assistant bookkeeper be hanged! I'm with you
from A to Z; but if you love me, don't keep me in the dark."

"I'll tell you all you need to know. Too much might be dangerous."

I was about to protest that I could not know too much, when Henry
raised his hand with a warning to silence. I heard the sound of a
cautious step outside. Then Henry sprang to the door, flung it open,
and bolted down the passage. There was the gleam of a revolver in his
hand. I hurried after him, but as I crossed the threshold he was coming
softly back, with finger on lips.

"I must see to the guards again. I can have them together by midnight."

"Can I help?"

"No. Just wait here till I get back. Bolt the door, and let nobody in
but me. It isn't likely that they will try to do anything before
midnight. If they do--well, here's a revolver. Shoot through the door
if anybody tries to break it down."

I stood in the door, revolver in hand, watched him down the hall, and
listened to his footsteps as they descended the stairs and at last
faded away into the murmur of life that came up from the open street.




CHAPTER II

A CRY FOR HELP


I hastily closed and locked the door. It shut out at least the eyes and
ears that, to my excited imagination, lurked in the dark corners and
half-hidden doorways of the dimly-lighted hall. And as I turned back to
the room my heart was heavy with bitter regret that I had ever left my
home.

This was not at all what I had looked for when I started for the Golden
Gate at my friend's offer of a "good place and a chance to get rich."

Then I rallied my spirits with something of resolution, and shamed
myself with the reproach that I should fear to share any danger that
Henry was ready to face. Wearied as I was with travel, I was too much
excited for sleep. Reading was equally impossible. I scarcely glanced
at the shelf of books that hung on the wall, and turned to a study of
my surroundings.

The room was on the corner, as I have said, and I threw up the sash of
the west window and looked out over a tangle of old buildings,
ramshackle sheds, and an alley that appeared to lead nowhere. A wooden
shutter swung from the frame-post of the window, reaching nearly to a
crazy wooden stair that led from the black depths below. There were
lights here and there in the back rooms. Snatches of drunken song and
rude jest came up from an unseen doggery, and vile odors came with
them. Shadows seemed to move here and there among the dark places, but
in the uncertain light I could not be sure whether they were men, or
only boxes and barrels.

Some sound of a drunken quarrel drew my attention to the north window,
and I looked out into the alley. The lights from Montgomery Street
scarcely gave shape to the gloom below the window, but I could
distinguish three or four men near the side entrance of a saloon. They
appeared quiet enough. The quarrel, if any there was, must be inside
the saloon. After an interval of comparative silence, the noise rose
again. There were shouts and curses, sounds as of a chair broken and
tables upset, and one protesting, struggling inebriate was hurled out
from the front door and left, with threats and foul language, to
collect himself from the pavement.

This edifying incident, which was explained to me solely by sound, had
scarcely come to an end when a noise of creaking boards drew my eyes to
the other window. The shutter suddenly flew around, and a human figure
swung in at the open casing. Astonishment at this singular proceeding
did not dull the instinct of self-defense. The survey of my
surroundings and the incident of the bar-room row had in a measure
prepared me for any desperate doings, and I had swung a chair ready to
strike a blow before I had time to think.

"S-h-h!" came the warning whisper, and I recognized my supposed robber.
It was Henry.

His clothes and hair were disordered, and his face and hands were grimy
with dust.

"Don't speak out loud," he said in suppressed tones. "Wait till I
fasten this shutter. The other one's gone, but nobody can get in from
that side unless they can shin up thirty feet of brick wall."

"Shall I shut the window?" I asked, thoroughly impressed by his manner.

"No, you'll make too much noise," he said, stripping off his coat and
vest. "Here, change clothes with me. Quick! It's a case of life and
death. I must be out of here in two minutes. Do as I say, now. Don't
ask questions. I'll tell you about it in a day or two. No, just the
coat and vest. There--give me that collar and tie. Where's your hat?"

The changes were completed, or rather his were, and he stood looking as
much like me as could be imagined.

"Don't stir from this room till I come back," he whispered. "You can
dress in anything of mine you like. I'll be in before twelve, or send a
messenger if I'm not coming. By-by."

He was gone before I could say a word, and only an occasional creaking
board told me of his progress down the stairs. He had evidently had
some practice in getting about quietly. I could only wonder, as I
closed and locked the door, whether it was the police or a private
enemy that he was trying to avoid.

I had small time to speculate on the possibilities, for outside the
window I heard the single word, "Help!"

The cry was half-smothered, and followed by a gurgling sound and noise
as of a scuffle in the alley.

I rushed to the window and looked out. A band of half a dozen men was
struggling and pushing away from Montgomery Street into the darker end
of the alley. They were nearly under the window.

"Give it to him," said a voice.

In an instant there came a scream, so freighted with agony that it
burst the bonds of gripping fingers and smothering palms that tried to
close it in, and rose for the fraction of a second on the foul air of
the alley. Then a light showed and a tall, broad-shouldered figure
leaped back.

"These aren't the papers," it hissed. "Curse on you, you've got the
wrong man!"

There was a moment's confusion, and the light flashed on the man who
had spoken and was gone. But that flash had shown me the face of a man
I could never forget--a man whose destiny was bound up for a brief
period with mine, and whose wicked plans have proved the master
influence of my life. It was a strong, cruel, wolfish face--the face of
a man near sixty, with a fierce yellow-gray mustache and imperial--a
face broad at the temples and tapering down into a firm, unyielding
jaw, and marked then with all the lines of rage, hatred, and chagrin at
the failure of his plans.

It took not a second for me to see and hear and know all this, for the
vision came and was gone in the dropping of an eyelid. And then there
echoed through the alley loud cries of "Police! Murder! Help!" I was
conscious that there was a man running through the hall and down the
rickety stairs, making the building ring to the same cries. My own
feelings were those of overmastering fear for my friend. He had gone on
his mysterious, dangerous errand, and I felt that it was he who had
been dragged into the alley, and stabbed, perhaps to death. Yet it
seemed I could make no effort, nor rouse myself from the stupor of
terror into which I was thrown by the scene I had witnessed.

It was thus with a feeling of surprise that I found myself in the
street, and came to know that the cries for help had come from me, and
that I was the man who had run through the hall and down the stairs
shouting for the police.

Singularly enough there was no crowd to be seen, and no excitement
anywhere. Some one was playing a wheezy melodeon in the saloon, and men
were singing a drunken song. The alley was dark, and I could see no one
in its depths. The house through which I had flown shouting was now
silent, and if any one on the street had heard me he had hurried on and
closed his ears, lest evil befall him. Fortunately the policeman on the
beat was at hand, and I hailed him excitedly.

"Only rolling a drunk," he said lightly, as I told of what I had seen.

"No, it's worse than that," I insisted. "There was murder done, and I'm
afraid it's my friend."

He listened more attentively as I told him how Henry had left the house
just before the cry for help had risen.

The policeman took me by the shoulders, turned me to the gaslight, and
looked in my face.

"Excuse me, sor," he said. "I see you're not one of that kind. Some of
'em learns it from the blitherin' Chaneymen."

I was mystified at the moment, but I found later that he suspected me
of having had an opium dream. The house, I learned, was frequented by
the "opium fiends," as they figure in police slang.

"It's a nasty place," he continued. "It's lucky I've got a light." He
brought up a dark lantern from his overcoat pocket, and stood in the
shelter of the building as he lighted it. "There's not many as carries
'em," he continued, "but they're mighty handy at times."

We made our way to the point beneath the window, where the men had
stood.

There was nothing to be seen--no sign of struggle, no shred of torn
clothing, no drop of blood. Body, traces and all had disappeared.




CHAPTER III

A QUESTION IN THE NIGHT


I was stricken dumb at this end to the investigation, and half doubted
the evidence of my eyes.

"Well," said the policeman, with a sigh of relief, "there's nothing
here."

I suspected that his doubts of my sanity were returning.

"Here is where it was done," I asserted stoutly, pointing to the spot
where I had seen the struggling group from the window. "There were
surely five or six men in it."

The policeman turned his lantern on the spot. The rough pavement had
taken no mark of the scuffle.

"It's hard to make sure of things from above in this light," said the
policeman, hinting once more his suspicion that I was confusing dreams
with reality.

"There was no mistaking that job," I said. "See here, the alley leads
farther back. Bring your light."

"Aisy, now," said the policeman. "I'll lead the way. Maybe you want one
yourself, as your friend has set the fashion."

A few paces farther the alley turned at a right angle to the north,
yawning dark behind the grim and threatening buildings, and filled with
noisome odors. We looked narrowly for a body, and then for traces that
might give hint of the passage of a party.

"Nothing here," said the policeman, as we came out on the other street.
"Maybe they've carried him into one of these back-door dens, and maybe
they whisked him into a hack here, and are a mile or two away by now."

"But we must follow them. He may be only wounded and can be rescued.
And these men can be caught." I was almost hysterical in my eagerness.

"Aisy, aisy, now," said the policeman. "Go back to your room, now.
That's the safest place for you, and you can't do nothin' at all out
here. I'll report the case to the head office, an' we'll send out the
alarm to the force. Now, here's your door. Just rest aisy, and they'll
let you know if anything's found."

And he passed on, leaving me dazed with dread and despair in the
entrance of the fateful house.

The sounds of drunken pleasure were lessening about me. The custom had
fallen off in the saloon across the street to such extent that the
proprietor was putting up the shutters. The saloon on the corner of the
alley was still waiting for stray customers and I crossed over to it
with the thought that the inmates might give me a possible clue. A man
half-asleep leaned back in a chair by the stove with his chin on his
breast. Two rough-looking men at a table who were talking in low tones
pretended not to notice my entrance, but their furtive glances gave
more eloquent evidence of their interest than the closest stare.

The barkeeper eyed me with apparent openness. I called for a glass of
wine, partly as an excuse for my visit, and partly to revive my shaken
spirits.

"Any trouble about here to-night?" I asked in my most affable tone.

The barkeeper looked at me with cold suspicion.

"No, sir," he said shortly. "This is the quietest neighborhood in
town."

"I should think there would be a disturbance every time that liquor was
sold," was my private comment, as I got the aftertaste of the dose. But
I merely wished him good night as I paid for the drink, and sauntered
out.

I promptly got into my doorway before any one could reach the street to
see whither I went, and listened to a growling comment and a mirthless
laugh that followed my departure. Hardly had I gained my concealment
when the swinging doors of the saloon opened cautiously, and a face
peered out into the semi-darkness. With a muttered curse it went back,
and I heard the barkeeper's voice in some jest about a failure to be
"quick enough to catch flies."

Once more in the room to wait till morning should give me a chance to
work, I looked about the dingy place with a heart sunk to the lowest
depths. I was alone in the face of this mystery. I had not one friend
in the city to whom I could appeal for sympathy, advice or money. Yet I
should need all of these to follow this business to the end--to learn
the fate of my cousin, to rescue him, if alive and to avenge him, if
dead.

Then, in the hope that I might find something among Henry's effects to
give me a clue to the men who had attacked him, I went carefully
through his clothes and his papers. But I found that he did not leave
memoranda of his business lying about. The only scrap that could have a
possible bearing on it was a sheet of paper in the coat he had changed
with me. It bore a rough map, showing a road branching thrice, with
crosses marked here and there upon it. Underneath was written:

"Third road--cockeyed barn--iron cow."

Then followed some numerals mixed in a drunken dance with half the
letters of the alphabet--the explanation of the map, I supposed, in
cipher, and as it might prove the clue to this dreadful business, I
folded the sheet carefully in an envelope and placed it in an inmost
pocket.

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