Lafcadio Hearn - "Glimpses of an Unfamiliar Japan"

Charles Miner Thompson - "The Calico Cat"

Horace Annesley Vachell - "The Hill"

George V. Hobart - "You Should Worry Says John Henry"

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.

The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale

F >> Frank L. Packard >> The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale




Which was it? The Crime Club, or the Magpie? Here again he could not
know, though he inclined to the belief that it was the latter; but here,
in either case, the means of knowing, of helping her, the way, the road,
was clearly defined--and the road was the road to the underworld. But
Larry the Bat was dead and the road was barred. And then a half finished
painting standing on an easel at the rear of his den had brought him
inspiration. It was one of his hobbies--and it swung wide again for him
the door of the underworld. None, in a broken-down, disappointed,
drug-shattered artist, would recognise Larry the Bat! The only
similarity between the two--the one thing that must of necessity be the
same in order to explain plausibly his intimacy with the dens and lairs
of Crimeland, the one thing that would, if nothing more, assure an
unsuspicious, tolerant acceptance of his presence there, was that, like
Larry the Bat, he would assume the role of a confirmed dope fiend; but
as there were many dope fiends, thousands of them in the Bad Lands, that
point of similarity, even if Larry the Bat were not believed to be dead,
held little, if any, risk. For the rest, it was easy enough; and so
there had come into being these wretched quarters here, the New
Sanctuary--and Smarlinghue.

But the mere assumption of a new role was not all--it was not there that
the difficulty lay; it was in gaining for Smarlinghue the _confidence_
of the underworld that Larry the Bat had once held. And that had taken
time--was not even yet an accomplished fact. The intimate, personal
acquaintance of Larry the Bat with every crook and dive in Gangland had
aided him, as Smarlinghue, to gain an initial foothold, but his complete
establishment there had necessarily had to be of Smarlinghue's own
making. And it had taken time. Six months had gone now, six months that,
as far as the Tocsin was concerned, had been barren of results mainly,
he encouraged himself to believe, because his efforts had been always
limited and held in check; six months of anxious, careful building, and
now, just as he was regaining the old-time confidence that Larry the Bat
had enjoyed, just as he was reaching that point where the whispered
secrets of the underworld once more reached his ears and there was a
promise of success if, indeed, she were still alive, had come this thing
to-night that spelt ruin to his hopes and ultimate disaster to himself.

If she were still alive! The thought came flashing back; and with a low,
involuntary moan, mingling anguish of mind with a bitter, merciless
fury, he turned restlessly upon the cot. If she were still alive! No
sign, no word had come from her; he had found no clue, no trace of her
as yet through the channels of the underworld; his surveillance of the
Magpie, whose friendship he had begun to cultivate, had, so far, proved
fruitless.

It came upon him now again, the fear, the dread, which he had known so
often in the past few months, that seemed to try to undermine his
resolution to go forward, that whispered speciously that it was
useless--that she was dead. And misery came. And he lay there staring
unseeingly into the moonrays as they streamed in through the top-light.

Time passed. Then a smile played over Jimmie Dale's lips, half grim,
half wistful; and the strong, square jaw was suddenly out-flung. If she
was alive, he would find her; if she was dead--his clenched hand lifted
above his head as though to register a vow--the man or men, her murderer
or murderers, whether to-morrow or in the years to come, would know a
day of reckoning when they should pay the debt!

But that was for the future. To-night there was this vital, imminent
danger that he had to face, this decision to make whose pros and cons
seemed each to hold an equal measure of dismay. What was he to do?

He laughed shortly, ironically after a moment. It was as though some
malignant ingenuity had conspired to trap him. He was caught either way.
What was he to do? The question kept pounding at his brain, growing more
sinister with each repetition. What was he to do? Defy the police--and
be branded as a stool-pigeon, a snitch, an informer in every nook and
cranny of the underworld! He could not do that. Everything, all that
meant anything in life to him now would be swept from his reach at even
the first breath of suspicion. Nor was it an idle threat that his
unwelcome visitor had made. He was not fool enough to blind himself on
that score--it could be only too easily accomplished. And on the other
hand--but what was the use of torturing his brain with a never-ending
rehearsal of details? Was there a middle course? That was his only
chance. Was there a way to safeguard Smarlinghue and, yes, this
miserable hovel of a place, priceless now as his new Sanctuary.

He followed the moonpath's slant with his eyes to where it touched the
floor and disclosed the greasy, threadbare, pitiful carpet. A grim
whimsicality fell upon him. It would be too bad to lose it! It was
luxury to what Larry the Bat had known! There had not even been a carpet
in the old Sanctuary, and--he sat suddenly bolt upright on the cot, his
eyes, that had mechanically travelled on along the moonpath, strained
now upon where the light fell upon the threshold of the door. There was
a little white patch there, a most curious little white patch--that had
not been there when he had thrown himself on the cot. Came a sudden,
incredulous thought that sent the blood whipping fiercely through his
veins; and with a low cry, in mad, feverish haste now, he leaped from
the cot and across the room.

It was an envelope that had been thrust in under the door. In an instant
he had snatched it up from the floor, and in another, acting
instinctively, even while he realised the futility of what he did, he
wrenched the door open, stared out into a dark and empty
passageway--and, with a strange, almost hysterical laugh, closed and
locked the door again.

There was no writing on the envelope; there was not light enough to have
deciphered it if there had been--but he had need for neither writing
nor light. Those long, slim, tapering fingers, those wonderful fingers
of Jimmie Dale, that seemed to combine all human faculties in their
sensitive tips, had already telegraphed their message to his brain--it
was the same texture of paper that she always used--it was from
_her_--it was from the Tocsin.

Joy, gladness, a relief so terrific as it surged upon him as to leave
him for the moment physically weak, held him in thrall, and he
stumbled back across the room, and slipped down into a chair before
the table, and dropped his head forward into his arms, the note
tightly clasped in his hand. She was _alive_. The Tocsin was
alive--and well--and here in New York--and free--and they had not
caught her. It meant all those things, the coming and the manner of
the coming of this note. A deep thankfulness filled his heart; it
seemed that it was only now he realised the full measure of the fear
and anxiety, the strain under which he had been labouring for so many
months. She was alive--the Tocsin was alive. It was like some
wonderful song that filled his soul, excluding all else. How little
the contents of the note itself mattered--the one great, glorious fact
for the moment was that she was alive!

It was a long time before Jimmie Dale raised his head, and then he got
up suddenly from his chair, and lit the gas. But even then he hesitated
as he turned the note over, speculatively now, in his fingers. So she
knew him as Smarlinghue! In some way she had found that out! His brows
gathered abstractedly, then cleared again. Well, at any rate, it was
added proof that so far her cleverness had completely outwitted those
who had pitted themselves against her--so much so that even her freedom
of action, in whatever role she had assumed, was still left open to her.

He tore the envelope open. There was no preface to the note, no "Dear
Philanthropic Crook" as there had always been in the old days--instead,
the single, closely-written sheet began abruptly, the writing itself
indicating that it had been composed in desperate haste. He glanced
quickly over the first few lines.

"You should not have done this. You should never have come into the
underworld again. I begged, I implored you not to do so. And now you are
in danger to-night. I can only hope and pray that this will reach you in
time, and--" He read on, in a startled way now, to the end; then read
the note over again more slowly, this time muttering snatches of it
aloud: "... Chicago ... Slimmy Jack and Malay ... Birdie Lee ...
released from Sing Sing to-day ... triangular scar on forehead over
right eye...."

And then, for a little while, Jimmie Dale stood there staring about the
room, motionless, rigid as stone, save that his fingers moved in an
automatic, mechanical way as they began to tear the note into little
shreds. But presently into his face there crept a menacing look, and an
angry red began to tinge his cheeks, and his jaws clamped ominously.

So that was the game at Malay John's, was it? Birdie Lee was out again!
She had not needed to mention any scar to enable him to identify Birdie
Lee. He knew the man of old. The slickest of them all, the cleverest of
them all, before he had been caught and sent to Sing Sing for a
five-years' term, was Birdie Lee--the one man of them all that he,
Jimmie Dale, might regard as a rival, so to speak, where the mastery of
the intricate mechanism of a vaunted and much advertised "guaranteed
burglar-proof safe" was concerned! And Birdie Lee was out again!

There was danger if he went to Malay John's, she had said--and it was
true. But what if he did _not_ go! What, for instance, if Birdie Lee
went through with this night's work!

Jimmie Dale walked slowly across the room, halted before the wall near
the door, stood for an instant hesitant there--and then, as though in a
sudden, final decision, dropped down on his knees, and, working swiftly,
removed the section of the base-board from the wall for the second time
that night.

Out came the neatly folded clothes of Jimmie Dale; and with them,
serving him so well in the days gone by, the leather girdle, or
undervest, with its stout-sewn, upright pockets in which nestled, in an
array of fine, blue-steel, highly tempered instruments, a compact
powerful burglar's kit. It was the one thing that he had saved from the
fire in the old Sanctuary--and that more by accident than design. He had
been wearing the girdle that night when he had stolen into the Crime
Club, and afterwards had returned to the Sanctuary with the intention of
destroying forever all traces of Larry the Bat; and then, only half
dressed, as he was changing into the clothes of Jimmie Dale, the alarm
had come before he had taken off the girdle, and, without thought of it
again at the time, he had still been wearing it when he had made his
escape. He looked at it now for a moment grimly--and smiled in a
mirthless way. He had not used it since that night, and that night he
had never meant or thought to use it again--only to destroy it!

He reached into the aperture in the wall once more, drew out a pocket
flashlight and an automatic pistol, and laid them down beside the
clothes and the leather girdle; then, pulling off his coat and shirt, he
ran noiselessly across the room to the washstand. A few drops from a
tiny phial poured into the water, and the pallor, the sickly hue from
his face was gone. It was to be Jimmie Dale--not Smarlinghue--who would
keep the rendezvous at Malay John's!

And now he was back across the room once more, turning out the light as
he passed the gas-jet. The leather girdle, that went on much after the
fashion of a life-preserver, was fastened over his shoulders and secured
around his waist. The remainder of his clothes were stripped off with
lightning speed, and in their place were donned the fashionably
tailored, immaculate tweeds of Jimmie Dale. It was like some
quick-moving, shadowy pantomime in the moonlight. He gathered up the
discarded garments, tucked them into the opening in the wall, replaced
the baseboard, slipped the automatic and flashlight into the side
pockets of his coat--and stood up, his fingers feeling swiftly over his
vest and under the back of his coat to guard against the possibility of
any tell-tale bulge from the leather girdle underneath.

An instant he stood glancing critically about him; then the roller shade
over the window was lifted aside, the window itself, on carefully oiled
hinges, was opened noiselessly, closed again--and, hugged close against
the wall of the building, hidden in the black shadows, Jimmie Dale, so
silent as to be almost uncanny in his movements, crept along the few
intervening feet to the fence that enclosed the courtyard. Here, next to
the wall, a loosened plank swung outward at a touch, and he was standing
in a narrow, black areaway beyond. There was only the depth of the house
between himself and the street, and he paused now, crouched motionless
against the wall, listening. He heard no footfalls from the
pavement--only, like a distant murmur, the night sounds from the Bowery,
a block away--only the muffled roar of an elevated train. The way was
presumably clear, and he moved forward again--cautiously. He reached the
front of the building, which, like the old Sanctuary, was a tenement of
the poorer class, paused once more, this time to peer quickly up and
down the dark, ill-lighted cross street--and, satisfied that he was safe
from observation, stepped out on the sidewalk, and began to walk
nonchalantly along to the Bowery.

And here, at the corner, under a street lamp he consulted his watch. It
was ten o'clock! He smiled a little ironically. Certainly, they would
hardly expect him as early as that! Well, he would be a little ahead of
time, that was all!




CHAPTER III


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR

Jimmie Dale walked on again, rapidly now, heading down the Bowery. At
the expiration of perhaps ten minutes, he turned east; and still a few
minutes later, in the neighbourhood of Chatham Square, plunged suddenly
into a dark alleyway--there was, of course, as there was to all such
places, an unobtrusive entrance to Malay John's.

His lips tightened a little as he moved quietly forward. To venture here
in an unknown character was not far from being tantamount, if he were
discovered, to taking his life in his hands. Malay John was a queer
customer and a bad enemy, though counted "straight" by the underworld,
and trusted by the crooks and near-crooks as few other men were in the
Bad Lands. And, if Malay John was queer, the place he ran was queerer
still. Ostensibly he conducted a dance hall, and a profitable one at
that; but below the dance hall, known only to the initiated, deep down
in a sub-cellar, was perhaps the most remunerative gambling joint and
pipe lay-out in Crimeland.

Jimmie Dale halted before a doorway in the alley. The rear of a low
building rose black and unlighted above him. A confused jangle from a
tinny piano, accompanying a blatant cornet and a squeaky violin, mingled
with the dull scrape of many feet, laughter, voices, singing--the dance
hall at the front of the building was in full swing. He glanced sharply
up and down the dark alleyway, then, leaning forward, placed his ear to
the panel of the door--and the next instant opened the door softly and
stepped inside.

It was pitch black here, but it was familiar ground to Larry the Bat in
the old days, and therefore to Smarlinghue in the new. The short
passageway in which he was standing terminated, he knew, in a rear
entrance to the dance hall, which was always kept locked and used only
by Malay John himself, and which was just at the foot of the stairs that
led upward to Malay John's combination of private den, office, and
sleeping apartment; while at the side of the passage, half way along,
was that other door, always guarded on the inside, that required an
"open sesame" to gain admittance to the dive below.

And now he crept stealthily past this latter door, reached the
staircase, and went swiftly up to the landing above. Here another door
barred his way, and here again he placed his ear to the panel--but this
time to listen, it seemed, interminably. Every faculty was strained and
alert now. He could take no chances here, and the uproar from the dance
hall below, while it had safeguarded his ascent of the stairs, was
confusing now and by no means an unmixed blessing.

Still he crouched there, his ear to the panel--and then, satisfied at
last, he tried the door. It was locked.

"The penalty of being early!" murmured Jimmie Dale softly to himself.

His hand reached in under his vest to one of the pockets in the leather
girdle, and a tiny steel instrument was inserted in the lock. There was
a curious snipping sound, the doorknob turned slowly under his hand;
then cautiously, inch by inch, he pushed the door open, slipped
through--and stood motionless on the other side of the threshold. Save
only from the dance hall below, there was not a sound. The door closed
again; again that snipping sound as it was relocked--and then the round,
white ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight circled his surroundings.

There was a sort of barbaric splendour to the place. Malay John was
something of a sybarite! It was a single room, whose floor was covered
with rich Turkish rugs, whose walls were covered with Oriental hangings,
and in one corner was a great, wide divan, canopied, also with Oriental
hangings at head and foot, serving presumably for a bed; but, striking a
somewhat incongruous note, others of the appointments were modern
enough--the flat-topped desk in the centre of the room with its
revolving chair, for instance, and a large, ponderous safe that stood
back against the rear wall.

Jimmie Dale crossed the room for a closer inspection of the safe, and,
as his flashlight played over the single dial, he shook his head
whimsically. No, it would be hardly true to call _that_ modern; it was
only an ancient monstrosity, a helpless thing at the mercy of any
cracksman who--

The flashlight in his hand went out. Like lightning, Jimmie Dale, his
tread silent on the heavy rugs, leaped back across the room, and in an
instant slipped in behind the end hangings of the divan and stood,
pressed closely, against the wall.

A key turned stealthily in the lock, the door opened as stealthily--then
silence--then a flashlight swept suddenly around the room--darkness
again--and then a hoarse whisper:

"All clear, Birdie. Lock the door."

The door closed. The flashlight played down the room again--and upon
Jimmie Dale's lips came a twisted smile, as, his fingers edging the
hanging slightly to one side, he peered out.

The light ray moving before them, two dark forms stole across the room
to the safe.

"There you are, Birdie!" said one of them. "Ain't she a beaut! Say,
a kid could open it! Didn't I tell you I was handing you one on a
gold platter!"

The light ray now flooded the front of the safe, and outlined the forms
of the two men. One of them, holding the flashlight, dropped on his
knees, and began to twirl the dial tentatively; the other leaned
negligently against the corner of the safe.

"I ain't so sure it's easy, Slimmy," replied the man on his knees,
after a moment. He stopped twirling the dial, and looked up. "Mabbe
it'll take longer than we figured on. Are you sure there ain't no
chance of Malay gettin' back? I'd rather stack up against every bull in
New York than him."

The twisted smile on Jimmie Dale's lips still lingered. So that was
Slimmy Jack there, leaning against the safe! Slimmy Jack--and Birdie
Lee! His fingers drew the hangings a little further apart. The room was
in complete darkness except for the circle of light around the safe, and
it was as though what was being enacted before him were some strange,
realistic film thrown upon a screen--just two forms in the white light,
their faces masked, against the background of the safe, with its
glittering nickel dial. And now Slimmy Jack, from his negligent pose,
straightened sharply and leaned toward Birdie Lee.

"Say, what's the matter with you, Birdie!" he exclaimed roughly. "You
didn't let 'em get your nerve up the river, did you? You've been acting
kind of queer all day. I told you before, Malay wouldn't be back in time
to monkey with _us_. We don't have to stand for this--I told you that,
too. You don't think I'm a fool, do you, to steer you into a lay that's
got a come-back on myself unless the thing was planted right? Why, damn
it, Malay knows I saw the coin put in there. D'ye think I'd give him a
chance of suspecting _me_! It's all fixed--you know that. Now, go to
it--there's a nice little piece of money in there that'll keep us going
till we pull that Chicago deal."

"All right!" Birdie Lee answered tersely. "Keep quiet, then, and I'll
see what I can do."

He laid his ear against the safe, listening for the tumblers' fall,
as, holding the flashlight in his left hand, its rays upon the dial,
the fingers of his right began to work swiftly again with the
glistening knob.

From below, the confused, dull medley of sound from the dance hall
seemed only to intensify the silence in the room. Slimmy Jack stood
motionless at the side of the safe, his elbow resting against the
old-fashioned, protruding upper hinge. A minute, two, another, and still
another dragged by. Came then a short ejaculation from Birdie Lee.

Slimmy Jack bent forward instantly.

"Got it?" he demanded eagerly.

"No--curse it!" gritted Birdie Lee. "My fingers seem to have lost their
touch--I ain't had much practice for the last five years up there in
Sing Sing!"

"Well, then, 'soup' it!" grunted Slimmy Jack. "You could blow the roof
off, and no one would be the wiser with that racket downstairs. We can't
waste all night over it."

"What are you going to 'soup' it with?" Birdie Lee flung back gruffly.
"We didn't bring nothing. You said--"

"I know I did!" A sullen menace had crept suddenly into Slimmy Jack's
voice. "I said you could open an old tin can like that with your hands
tied--and so you can. Try it again!"

Jimmie Dale's fingers stole inside his shirt, and into a pocket of the
leather girdle, and brought forth a black silk mask. He slipped it
quickly over his face. Birdie Lee was at work once more. It was about
time to play his own hand in the game. The Tocsin had made no mistake,
he was sure of that now, and--

Birdie Lee spoke again.

"It's no use, Slimmy!" he muttered. "I guess I ain't any good any more.
I can't open the damned thing!"

"Try it again!" ordered Slimmy Jack shortly.

"But it's no use, I tell you!" retorted Birdie Lee. "I ain't got the
feel in my fingers."

"You--try--it--again!" There was a cold, ominous ring in Slimmy
Jack's voice.

Birdie Lee drew back a little on his knees, glancing quickly up at
the other.

"What--what d'ye mean by that, Slimmy!" he exclaimed in a startled way.

"I'll show you what I mean, and I'll show you blamed quick if you don't
open that safe!" Slimmy Jack threatened hoarsely. "Blast you, you're
stalling on me--that's what you're doing! I've seen you work before.
You could open that thing with your finger nails, if you wanted to!
Now, open it!"

"But, I can't!" protested Birdie Lee. "I wouldn't hand you anything like
that, Slimmy--you know that, Slimmy. I--"

"_Open it!_ And open it--_quick_!" Slimmy Jack's hand was wrenching at
his side pocket.

"But, I tell you, I can't, Slimmy!" cried Birdie Lee, almost piteously.
"It's queered me up there in the pen. I"--he was rising to his
feet--"Slimmy--for God's, sake--what are you doing--you--"

There was a flash, the roar of the report, a swaying form, a revolver
clattering to the floor--and with a crash Slimmy Jack pitched forward
and lay motionless.

Then silence.

It had come without warning, in the winking of an eye, and for a moment
it seemed to Jimmie Dale that he could not grasp the full significance
of what had happened--that Slimmy Jack, his sleeve catching on the hinge
of the safe as he had finally succeeded in jerking his revolver from his
pocket, had, a grim, ironical trick of fate, accidentally shot himself!
Mechanically, automatically, Jimmie Dale's hands went to his pockets and
produced his own flashlight and revolver--but he did not move. His eyes
now were on Birdie Lee, who, like a man dazed and terror-stricken, had
lurched back against the safe, the flashlight that dangled in his hand
sweeping queer, aimless patches of light about the floor.

Still silence--only the uproar from the dance hall that would have
drowned out to those below the sound of the revolver shot. Then Birdie
Lee staggered forward, and knelt beside the prostrate form on the floor.
He stood up again presently, swaying unsteadily on his feet, turning his
head wildly about, now this way, now that. And then his whisper, broken,
hoarse, quavered through the room:

"He's dead. My God--he's--he's dead."

"Drop that flashlight!" Jimmie Dale's voice rang cold, imperative.
"_Drop it!_" And, sweeping the hangings aside, the ray of his own light
suddenly full upon Birdie Lee, he leaped forward.

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