Henry Blanc - "A Narrative of Captivity in Abyssinia"

J. Fenimore Cooper - "The Two Admirals"

William Noyes - "Handwork in Wood"

Henry David Thoreau - "A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers"

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.

Torchy

S >> Sewell Ford >> Torchy




"Yes; but what kind of clothes was he wearin'?" says I.

"Clothes!" snorts out Old Hickory. "What the blithering----"

"Lemme ask his man," says I, grabbin' the desk 'phone. "Plaza--yes,
Plaza, double O double three sixty-one. Sure! You got it. Say, Mr.
Ellins, that butler of yours don't burn the carpet movin' fast, does he?
He must----Hello! I want to talk to Walters. Ah, never mind who I am,
switch him on!" And inside of two minutes I have the report. "Frock coat
and silk lid," says I. "See? Society date."

"Huh!" says the old man. "That settles it. He's tagging around after
that young lady violinist again. Might have guessed; for since she's
come back from Paris he has taken about as much interest in business as
a cat does in astronomy. But to-morrow morning we'll----"

"Say," I breaks in, "if it's a case of young lady, why not locate her
and then scout for Mr. Robert in the neighborhood? That ought to be
easy."

"Think so?" says he. "Well, young man, you have my permission to tackle
the job. Her name is Inez Webster. I don't know where she lives, or with
whom she's staying; but she's somewhere in New York. Now, how will you
begin?"

"By rubberin' at Mr. Robert's date pad," says I.

"Good!" says Old Hickory. "No one else thought of that," and he leads
the way in and unlocks Mr. Robert's rolltop. "Now what do those
scratches mean?"

"I. W. 2:15," says I, readin' it off. "The arrow points to Inez. He must
be with her now."

"Wherever that is!" growls Mr. Ellins. "Go on."

"Say, lemme think a minute," says I, slippin' into the swing chair and
doin' the Sherlock gaze at the desk.

"Oh, certainly!" says he, snappy and sarcastic. "Take a nap over it!
Plenty of time!" and with that he pads back into his office and slams
the door.

Now I didn't like pawin' through the pigeon-holes or drawers; but when I
happens to glance at the waste basket I feels more at home. In a jiffy I
has it dumped on the rug. There was an empty cigarette box, the usual
collection of circulars, a dozen torn business letters, and so on. It
looked like a hopeless hunt, too, until I runs across this invitation
card announcin' that the Misses Pulsifer will be at home from
two-fifteen until five-thirty. There's a Fort Washington Road address,
and down in one corner it says "music." Also to-day's the day.

"Whoop!" says I, stowin' away the card. "Me for the Misses Pulsifers' on
a long shot. Hey, Mr. Ellins!" I shouts, stickin' my head in the door.
"Can I draw two bones for expense money? I'm on the trail."

"The blazes you are!" says he.

"Yep," says I. "Mebbe it's a false scent; but if I find him what's the
message?"

"Just ask Robert," says he, "if it has occurred to him that those P. K.
& Q. contract copies have got to be filed with the bonding company this
afternoon. That's all."

"Right!" says I. "P. K. & Q. contracts. I'm off."

Ever get as far up into the northwest corner of the island as Fort
Washington Road? Then you know how many blocks it is from the nearest
subway station. Not havin' time for a half-hour stroll, I takes a
Broadway express, jumps it at 157th, hunts up a taxi, and turns down the
red flag.

"Now don't try zigzaggin' around to roll up mileage," says I to the
shuffer; "but beat it straight there."

Some swell places up in that neck of Manhattan, what? Why, some of them
folks has so much back yard they keep their own cow. When we rolls in
through a pair of big stone gates I begin to suspect that the Misses
Pulsifers was lady plutes for fair, and the size of the house had me
stunned.

"I'm swell lookin' front door comp'ny, I am," thinks I, handin' over a
dollar thirty to the taxi pirate and paradin' in across the red carpet.
"Now what is it I tell the butler when he pushes out his tray?"

All the guard they has on the door, though, is a French maid, and when
she starts to look me over suspicious I shoves the invitation card at
her.

"Say, Marie," says I, "where's the doin's?"

"Pardon?" says she. "What you wish?"

"Ah, where do they keep the music?" says I.

"Ze musicale?" says she. "It is commence. S-s-s-sh!" and she points down
the hallway.

"Yes, I was afraid I'd be late," says I. "Glad they didn't wait. I'll
sneak into a back seat."

Did I? Well, say, I didn't know what I was runnin' into; for as I pushes
through some draperies I finds myself on the side lines of the biggest
herd of girls I ever saw collected in one room before. Why, there was
rows and rows of 'em, all in white dresses, and the minute I steps in
about two hundred pairs of eyes revolves my way.

Talk about jumpin' into the limelight! I felt like I'd wandered out on
the stage while the big scene was goin' on. Then comes the giggles, and
business with the elbows of passin' the nudge along. They all forgets
what's doin' up on the platform by the piano and pays strict attention
to me. Blush? Say, I'll bet my ears ain't got back their reg'lar color
yet!

Seemed like my feet was stuck to the floor, too. Maybe it was an hour I
stood there, and maybe it was only a minute; but at last I takes one
wild look around over that girl convention and then I backs out. I'd
seen him, though. Way over by an open window on the other side was Mr.
Robert, one of the four men in that whole crowd. So out the front door I
rushes and then tiptoes around the veranda until I came to him.

And he wa'n't gazin' around watchin' for casual butters-in. Not Mr.
Robert! All he's seein' is the slim young lady standin' up on the
platform with the violin tucked under her chin. You couldn't blame him
much, either; for, while I ain't any judge of the sort of music she was
teasin' out of the strings, I'll say this much: The way she was doin' it
was well worth watchin'. The swing of that elbow of hers, and the
Isadora Duncan sway of her shoulders as she hits the high notes sure did
have some class to it. He's so busy followin' her motions that he don't
even know when I leans in within six inches of him and whispers. So I
has to give him the gentle prod.

"Eh!" says he, whirlin' around. "Why, what the--Torchy!"

"Uh-huh," says I. "Crawl out backwards, can't you?"

"Wha--what's that!" says he, whisperin' sort of husky.

"You got to do it," says I. "I was sent up special to get you."

"Why, what's the matter?" says he.

"P. K. & Q. contracts," says I. "Did you file 'em yet?"

"By Jove, no!" he groans under his breath. "I--I forgot."

"Then it's a case of beat it," says I.

"But--but I can't!" says Mr. Robert. "I can't possibly leave now, right
in the middle of----"

"That's so," says I. "She's lookin' this way now. But where'd you stow
the contracts? Remember that, do you?"

"Why, of course," says he. "Third left hand drawer of my desk, in a
document box."

"'S enough!" says I. "I'll 'phone down and tell 'em. They'll fix it up.
Don't move; she's lookin' your way again."

"Wait!" says he, behind his hand. "I must see you before you go back,
after the concert is over. Wait for me in the garden."

"In the garden, Maud, it is," says I, and with that I slides back to the
front entrance and gets Marie to lead me to the 'phone booth.

Well, I'd got the joint all sized up now. It's one of these swell
boardin' schools for girls, where they take piano lessons and are
exposed to French and the German measles. And, now my knees has quit
wabblin' and I was safe out of the hall, I was almost glad I'd come up
and give the young ladies such a treat. I couldn't help admirin' Mr.
Robert's nerve, though; for he must have known what he was lettin'
himself in for when he follows Inez up there. But when they get it that
bad there's no tellin' how reckless they'll be.

If it had been all the same to Mr. Robert, my next move would have been
to get away from the spot as quick as my feet would let me; but so long
as he'd assigned me a waiting part that's what it had to be. With
Marie's help I finds the garden out at the back of the house and makes
myself comf'table on a rustic seat. It's a flossy garden scene, all
right, with winding paths, and flowerbeds, and cute little summer
houses, and all sorts of bushes in bloom. Now and then I could hear
music driftin' out, and when a piece was through the hand clappin' would
commence, like a shower on a tin roof.

Say, it had sittin' behind the brass rail in the office beat to a froth,
and I was enjoyin' it, lazy and comf'table, with my feet up on the bench
and my head back; when all at once there's a big spasm of applause, the
doors openin' on the back veranda are swung open, everybody starts
chatterin' together, there's a swish and a rustle and a clatter of high
heels; and the next thing I knew the whole blamed garden was full of
'em.

Girls! Say, all the fifty-seven varieties was represented,--tall ones,
short ones, thin ones, plump ones, and plain fatties. There was
aristocratic brunettes, and dimpled blondes, and every shade between.
They ranged from fourteen up, and they sported all kinds of hair
dressin', from double pleated braids to the latest thing in turban
swirls. And there was little Willie, hemmed in by a twelve-foot wall on
three sides and solid squads of girls on the fourth!

First they began sailin' by in groups of twos and threes and fours, all
givin' me the goo-goo stare and snickerin'. Honest, you'd thought I was
some kind of a humorous curiosity, specially exhibited for the occasion.
Ain't they the limit, though? And the whispered remarks they passed!
"Why, Madge! Aren't you just killing! Whose brother did you say you
thought----Yes, and so curly, too!"

I try to forget that red thatch of mine most of the time; but this was
no place to practice bein' absent minded. It didn't seem to make any
diff'rence whether I put my hat on or left it off, they were wise to the
ruddy hair. All I could do was to squeeze myself into one corner of the
seat and pretend not to notice 'em. What I wanted most was to stand up
and holler for Mr. Robert. Why in blazes didn't he show up, anyway?

I'd been enjoyin' this gen'ral inspection stunt for four or five
minutes, when maids begun circulatin' among the mob with trays of
sandwiches and plates of chicken salad, and every last one of 'em
stopped at my station.

"No, thanks," says I. Think I wanted to give a food destroyin'
performance before an audience like that? I was just wavin' away the
fourth offer of picnic grub when I hears a little squeal come from a
bunch of new recruits, and when I looks up to see what's happening
now--well, you'd never guess. It's Miss Vee! You know, the pink and
white queen I was tellin' you about meetin' at the swell dancin' class
where I subbed for Izzie in the cloakroom and was invited out to join
the merry throng.

She ain't got the ballroom costume on, of course; but I'd know them big
gray eyes and that straw colored hair and that sweet pea complexion in
any disguise. For a second she stands there gazin' at me sort of
surprised and puzzled, like she didn't know whether to give me the nod
or just put up her chin and sail by. If I could I'd looked the other
way, so's to give her a chance to duck recognizin' me; but I couldn't do
anything but stare back. And the next thing I knew she's comin' straight
for me.

"Why, Torchy!" says she, sort of purry and confidential. "You!" And
blamed if she wa'n't holdin' out both hands.

Well, say, you can't imagine what a diff'rence that makes to me. It was
like fallin' off a roof and landin' in a hammock. What did I care for
that push of young lady fluffs then?

"Sure thing, it's me," says I, grabbin' the hands before she could
change her mind. "Say, have a seat, won't you, Miss Vee?"

"Oh, then you haven't forgotten?" says she.

"Me? Forget?" says I. "Say, Miss Vee, I'll keep right on rememberin'
that spiel we had together until breathin' goes out of fashion--and then
some! Gee! but I'm glad you happened along!"

"But how is it," says she, "that you----"

"Special commission," says I. "I'm waitin' here for Mr. Robert Ellins."

"Oh!" says she. "And have you had some salad and sandwiches?"

"No; but I'm ready for 'em now," says I. "That is, if----Say, you don't
mind doin' this, do you?"

"Why should I?" says she.

"Oh, well," says I, "you see I ain't--well, I'm kind of outclassed here,
and I didn't know but some of the other girls might----"

"Let them dare!" says Miss Vee, straightenin' up and glancin' around
haughty. My! but she's a thoroughbred! There was one group standin' a
little way off watchin' us; but that look of Miss Vee's scattered 'em as
though she'd turned the hose on them. Next minute she was smilin'
again. "You see," she goes on, sittin' close, "I'm not much afraid."

"You're a hummer, you are!" says I, lookin' her over approvin'.

"There, there!" says she. "I see that you must have something to eat
right away. Here, Hortense! There! Now you'll have a cup of tea, won't
you?"

"Anything you pass out goes with me," says I, "even to tea."

It was my first offense in the oolong line, and, honest, I couldn't tell
now how it tasted; but I knew all about how Vee handles a cup and
saucer, though, and the way she has of lookin' at you over the rim. Say,
she's the only girl I ever knew who could talk more'n a minute to a
feller without the aid of giggles. There's some sense to what she has to
say, too, and all the way you can tell whether she's joshin' or not is
by watchin' her eyes. And me, I wa'n't losin' any tricks.

She tells me all about how she's been to school here ever since she was
a little girl. Seems she's as shy on parents as I am; but she has an
aunt that she lives with between school terms. This is her finishin'
year, and as soon as the final doin's are over she and Aunty are due to
sail for Europe.

"Coming back in September?" says I.

"Oh, no indeed!" says she. "Perhaps not for two years."

"Gee!" says I.

"Well?" says she, and I finds myself lookin' square into them big gray
eyes of hers.

"Oh, nothing," says I; "only--only it sounds a long ways off. And, say,
you don't happen to have a spare photo, do you, maybe one taken in that
dress you wore the night of the ball?"

"Silly!" says she. "But suppose I have?"

"Why," says I,--"why, I thought--well, say, it wouldn't do any harm to
leave my new address, would it! That's the number, care of Mrs. Zenobia
Preble."

"Zenobia!" says she. "Why, I know who she is. Do you live with----"

"I'm half adopted already," says I. "Bully old girl, ain't she? And say,
Miss Vee----"

It was just about then I had the feelin' that some one was tryin' to
butt in on this two-part dialogue of ours, and as I looks up, sure
enough there's Mr. Robert, with his eyes wide and his mouth half open,
watchin' us.

"Well, it's all over," says I. "Mr. Robert's waitin' for me. Good luck
and--and----Oh, what's the use? Give my regards to Europe, will you?
Good-by!" And with that we shakes hands and I breaks away.

"I don't wish to seem curious," says Mr. Robert, as we walks out to his
cab, "but--er--is this something recent?"

"Not very," says I. "We've met before."

"Then allow me," says he, "to congratulate you on your good taste."

"Thanks!" says I. "Same to you; and I ain't got so much on you at that,
eh?"

We drops the subject there; but Mr. Robert seems so pleased over
something or other that we'd gone twenty blocks before he remembers what
brought me up.

"Oh, by the way," says he, "I suppose there'll be no end of row about my
forgetting to send down those contracts. The Governor was wild, wasn't
he?"

"He was wild, all right," says I, "without knowin' whether you'd forgot
'em or not."

"But when you 'phoned him," says Mr. Robert, "of course he----"

"Ah, say!" says I. "Do I look like a trouble hunter? I 'phoned
Piddie--told him to sneak 'em out, send 'em down, and keep his mouth
shut. All you got to do is act innocent."

Never mind the hot air Mr. Robert passes out after that. What tickles me
most is the package that came for me yesterday by messenger. I finds it
on my plate at dinner time; so both the old ladies was on hand when I
opens it.

"Why, Torchy!" says Aunt Martha, lookin' at me shocked and scandalized.
"A young lady's picture!"

"Yep," says I. "Ain't she a dream, though?"

And, say, Martha'd been lecturin' me yet if it hadn't been for Zenobia
breakin' in.

"Do remember, Martha," says she, "that you were not always sixty-three
years old, and that once----Why, bless me! This must be Alicia Vernon's
child. Is there a name on the back? There is! Verona Ashton Hemmingway,
heiress to all that is left of poor Dick's fortune. She's a beauty, just
like her mother."

"She's all of that," says I.

It didn't make any diff'rence to Aunt Martha who she was, though. She
didn't think it right for young ladies to give away their pictures to
young men. She was for askin' me how long I'd known Miss Vee, and----

"There, now, Martha," said Zenobia, "suppose we don't."

That's how it is I can guess who it was blew themselves for a corkin'
big silver frame, and put Vee's picture in it, and stood it on my
bureau. Course, Vee's on her way to foreign parts now, and there's no
tellin' when she's comin' back. Besides, there ain't anything in it,
anyway. But somehow that picture in the silver frame seems to help
some.




CHAPTER XV

BATTING IT UP TO TORCHY


Nobody had to point him out to me. I hadn't been holdin' down the chair
behind the brass gate more'n two days before I knew who was the living
joke on the Corrugated Trust Company's force. It's Uncle Dudley, of
course.

And, say, my coppin' that out don't go to prove I'm a Mr. Cute. Any
mush-head could have picked him after one glimpse of the old vintage
Prince Albert, the back number silk lid, and the white Chaunceys he
wears on each side of his face. That get-up would be good for a quiet
smile even over in Canarsie; but when you come to plant it in the midst
of such a sporty aggregation as the Corrugated carries on the
payroll--why, you've got the comic chuckles comin' over fast.

"Say, Piddie," says I the second morning, after watchin' it blow in,
"who's the seed, eh?"

"That?" says Piddie. "Oh, that's old Dudley."

"Does he wear the uniform reg'lar," says I, "or is he celebratin' some
anniversary?"

And Piddie almost allows himself to grin as he explains how that's the
same costume Dudley has come down to work in every day for the last
fifteen years.

"Well, it's a flossy outfit, all right," says I. "What is he, one of the
directors?"

No, he wa'n't. He's some sort of subassistant auditor with a salary of
eighteen per. You know the kind--one of these deadwood specimens that
stand a show of gettin' the prunin' hook every time there's a shake-up.
Most every office has a few of 'em, hangin on like last year's oak
leaves in the park; but it ain't often they can qualify as comic
supplements.

Not that Uncle Dudley tries to be humorous. He's the quietest, meekest
old relic you ever saw, slidin' in soft and easy with his hat off, and
walkin' almost as though he had his shoes in his hand. But the faded
umbrella under one arm and the big buttonhole bouquet he always wears
puts him in the joke book class without takin' the face lambrequins into
account at all.

Can I let all that get by me without passin' out some josh? You can see
me, can't you? Never mind all the bright and cunnin' remarks I sprung on
Uncle Dudley now; but for awhile there I made a point of puttin' over
something fresh every day. Why, it was a cinch!

All the comeback I ever got out of him, though, was that batty old
smile of his, kind of sad and gentle, as if I was remindin' him of times
gone by. And there ain't a lot of satisfaction in that, you know. Now, I
can chuck the giddy persiflage at Piddie day in and day out, and enjoy
doin' it, because it always gets him so wild. Also there's more or less
thrill to slippin' the gay retort across to Old Hickory Ellins now and
then, because there's a giddy chance of gettin' fired for it. But to rub
it into a non-resister like Uncle Dudley--well, what's the use?

So after awhile I cut it out altogether, leavin' him for such amateur
cut-ups as Izzy Budheimer and Flannel Haggerty to practice on. Then
little by little me and old Dudley got more or less chummy, what with me
steerin' him around to my fav'rite dairy lunch joint and all that. And,
say, we must have been a great pair, sittin' side by side in the
armchairs, puttin' away sweitzer sandwiches and mugs of chickory blend;
him in his tall lid, and with his quiet, old timy manners, and me--well,
I guess you get the tableau.

I used to like hearin' him talk, he uses such a soothin', genteel brand
of conversation; nothing fancy, you know, but plain, straightaway goods.
Mostly he tells me about his son, who's livin' out in California
somewhere and is just branchin' out in the cement block buildin'
business. Son is messin' in politics more or less too; mixin' it up
with the machine, and gettin' the short end of the returns every trip.
But it's on account of this reform stunt of his that the old gent seems
to be so proud of him, not appearin' to care whether he ever got elected
to anything or not.

He don't say so much about the married daughter that he lives with over
in Jersey; but I don't think much about that until after I've let him
tow me over to dinner once and met Son in Law Bennett. He's a flashy
proposition, this young Mr. Bennett is, havin' an interest in a curb
brokerage firm that rents window space on Broad-st. and has desk room
down on William. Let him tell it, though, and, providin' some of his
deals go through, he's goin' to have Morgan squealin' for help before
the year is out.

And I find that at home Uncle Dudley is rated somewhere between the
fam'ly cat and the front doormat. Mr. Bennett don't exactly gag the old
man and lock him in the cellar. He ignores him when he can, and when he
has to notice him he makes it plain that he's standin' the disgrace as
well as he can.

"So you came over with the old sport, did you?" says Bennett to me.
"Batty old duffer, eh? That comes of being a dead one for so long.
Manages to hang on with the Corrugated, though, don't he? He'd better,
too! I'm not running any old folks' home here."

But it wa'n't to show off how he stood with his son in law that Uncle
Dudley had lugged me along. He'd got so used to bein' dealt out for a
twospot that he didn't seem to mind. He didn't claim to be anything more
even at the office.

It's his flower garden, out back of the house, that Uncle Dudley had got
me 'way out there to see; and, while I ain't any expert on that line of
displays, I should say this posy patch of his had some class to it.
Anyway, seein' it, and findin' out how he rolls off the mattress at
sunrise every mornin' to tend it, lets me in for a new view of him. It's
this little garden patch and the son out West that makes life worth
livin' for him, in spite of Son in Law Bennett.

"Say, Dudley," says I, "why don't you work a combination of the two; go
out where you can raise roses all winter, if the dope these railroad
ads. sling out is straight, and be with your son too?"

"I--I can't do that, just yet," says he, sort of hesitatin'. "You see,
he hasn't seen me for twelve years, and since then I have--er--well,
I've been slipping backward. He doesn't know what a failure I've made of
life, and if I gave up here and went on to him--why----"

"I'm on," says I. "He'd spot you for one of the down-and-outers. But
you do get it rubbed in here good and plenty, don't you?"

"From Bennett?" says he. "Oh, he is right, I suppose. He knows how
useless I am. But we cannot all succeed, can we? Some of us must stay at
the bottom and prop the ladder."

One thing about Uncle Dudley, he had no whine comin'. He takes it all
meek and cheerful, and so far as I could make out he's most as useful
around the office as a lot of others that gets chesty whenever they
think what would happen to the concern if they should be sick for a
week. Anyway, there's frequent calls for old Dudley to straighten out
this or that; but somehow he never seems to get credit for bein' much
more than a sort of a walkin' copybook that remembers what other people
don't want to lumber up their valuable brains with. Maybe it's the white
mud guards, or his habit of lettin' anyone boss him around, that keeps
him down.

And I expect things would have gone on that way, until he either dropped
out or got the blue envelope some payday, if it hadn't been for this lid
liftin' business up at Albany. Course, you've read how they uncovered
first one lot of grafters and then another, and fin'lly, with that last
swipe of the muck rake, got the Corrugated rung into the mess? And, say,
anyone would think, from some of the papers, that we was all a bunch of
crooks down here, spendin' our time feedin' wads of hundred-dollar bills
to the yellow dog. Maybe it don't stir up Mr. Robert some thorough,
though!

"Why," I heard him say to the old man, "it's a beastly outrage, that's
what it is! All the fellows at the club are chaffing me about it, you
know. And besides it's disturbing business frightfully. Look at the
tumble our shares took yesterday! I say, Governor, we must send out a
denial."

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