Anonymous - "The Book Of The Thousand Nights And One Night, Volume I"

Richard B. Cook - "The Grand Old Man"

Thomas Henry Huxley - "This is Essay #1 from Science and Hebrew Tradition"

D. J. Medley - "The Church and the Empire"

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




When they got to discussin' the girls, though, and sayin' how such a one
was a "jolly sort," and others was "bloomin' rotters," it made me
seasick and it was a relief when they took to whisperin' things I
couldn't hear about the chaperons. After intermission they come sneakin'
in by twos and threes to hit up their cigarettes.

It was about eleven-thirty and there was four or five of 'em in the
cloakroom, puffin' away languid like real clubmen, when in drifts a
young lady all in pink silk and gold net and hails one of the wicked
bunch.

"Bobby," says she, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

"Run on now, Vee," says he. "Told you when I asked you to come that I
wasn't a dancing man, y'know."

"Fudge!" says she, stampin' her foot. "You think it's smart to take that
pose, don't you? Well, you wait!"

And, say, you talk about your haughty beauts! Why, she was a little the
silkiest young queen I ever had a real close view of,--the slimmest feet
and ankles, reg'lar cameo-cut face all tinted up natural like a bunch of
sweet peas, and a lot of straw-colored hair as fine as cobwebs. She was
a thoroughbred stunner, this Miss Vee was, and mad all over.

"I haven't been on the floor for four numbers," she goes on. "You just
wait!"

"You wouldn't be cad enough to peach on us for smokin', would you?" says
Bobby.

"Wouldn't I, though!" says she.

That starts a stampede. All but Bobby chucks away their cigarettes and
beats it back to the ballroom. He turns sulky, though.

"Tell ahead," says he. "Who cares? And let's see you get any more
dances!"

He's a pasty-faced, weak-jawed youth with a chronic scowl and a sullen
look in his eyes. I should say he was sixteen maybe, and the young lady
a year older. She grips her fan hard and stands there starin' at him.
I'm so much int'rested in the case that the first thing I know I've
butted in with advice.

"Ah, be nice, Claude!" says I. "Dance with the young lady. I would if I
was you."

And you can't guess how fussy a little remark like that gets Bobby boy.
He almost swallows his cigarette from the jar he gets, being spoken to
by a common cloakroom checker. First off he jumps up and stalks over to
me real majestic and threatenin'.

"You--you----How dare you?" he splutters out.

"There, there!" says I. "Don't get bristle-spined over it. I wa'n't
offerin' any deadly insult, and if it makes you feel as bad as all that
I'll take it back."

"I--I'll have you dismissed!" he growls.

"Can't do it, Bobby," says I. "I'm no reg'lar tip-chaser. I'm here
incog.--doing it for a lark, y'know. Back to your corner, now! There's a
lady present."

He glares at me for a minute or so, and then turns on the queen in pink.
"I hope you're satisfied, Vee," says he. "You would come in here,
though! I can't help it if the attendants are insolent to you."

"Pooh!" says Miss Vee. "The young man was only taking my part."

"So?" sneers Bobbie. "I congratulate you on your new champion."

"He acts more like a gentleman than you do, at any rate!" she fires back
at him.

"Does he?" says Bobby. "Then why don't you get him for a partner?"

[Illustration: "G'WAN!" SAYS I, "IT'S A FAIR SWAP."]

"If you don't ask me for this next waltz, I will," says she, tossin' up
her chin.

"What a bluff!" says Bobby. "Well, Miss Vee, I'm not going to ask you.
Now!"

Say, it was gettin' more or less personal by that time, and I was
wonderin' just how the young lady was goin' to back out of the
proposition that had been put up to her, when the first thing I know
she's marchin' straight over to where I was.

"Will you give me this next waltz?" says she.

"Say," I gasps, "do you mean it?"

"Certainly I do," says she. "You can dance, can't you?"

"I don't know," says I; "but I can do an East Side spiel."

"Good!" says she. "I know how to do that too. Come on."

"In a minute," says I. "Just hold on until I borrow the young
gentleman's evenin' coat."

"Wha--what's that?" snorts Bobby.

"You can be usin' mine for a smokin' jacket," says I. "Peel it off now,
and let the fancy vest come along too!"

"I--I won't do it!" says Bobbie.

"Oh, yes, you will," says I, "or else you and me will be mixed up in a
rumpus that'll bring the chaperons and special cops in here on the
run," and with that I proceeds to shed the braided coat and my black
vest.

"You're insulting!" says Bobby, gettin' wild-eyed.

"G'wan!" says I. "It's a fair swap. I'll leave it to the young lady."

And when I'd sized her up for a thoroughbred I hadn't made any wild
guess. There's a twinkle under them long eyelashes that's as good as a
go-ahead signal.

"Of course," says she. "It was you who suggested him as a partner,
anyway. And hurry, Bobby, there goes the waltz!"

"I--I----" he begins.

"Ah, shuck 'em!" says I, startin' for him hasty.

I expects it was the prospects of gettin' rung into a rough and tumble,
and having to explain to mother, that changed Bobby's mind so sudden. At
any rate, inside of a minute more I'm wearin' the pearl-gray waistcoat
and the silk-faced tuxedo, and out I sails onto the shiny floor of the
green and gold ballroom with somebody's pink-costumed heiress hangin' to
my left arm.

"One-two-three; one-two-three----Now!" says she, countin' out the time
so I shouldn't make any false start.

But, say, I didn't need that. Course, I'm no cotillion leader, and about
all the dancin' I ever done was at chowder parties or in the Coney
Island halls; but who couldn't keep step to a tune like "Yip-I-Addy"
played by a twelve-piece goulash orchestra, specially with such a
crackerjack partner as Miss Vee was?

Could we spiel together? Why, say, we just floats along over the waxed
maple boards like a pair of summer butterflies, pivotin' first one way
and then the other, dodgin' in and out among the couples, and givin' an
exhibition that had any other performance on the floor lookin' like a
cripples' parade.

First it got into my heels, and then it goes to my head. I didn't know
whether I was waltzin', or havin' a joy ride with some biplane shuffer.
I wa'n't sayin' a word in the way of language; but Miss Vee keeps up a
string of chatter and giggles that's enough for both. You'd thought to
see us, I expect, that we was carryin' on a real, rapid-fire, smart-set
dialogue, when all the while it was only her tellin' me how the
diff'rent parties was actin' when they first spotted her on the floor
with a ringer, and how the chaperons were squintin' at us through their
lorgnettes, tryin' to make out who I was. And the greatest shock I ever
had was when the music stopped and I fell about a mile down through rosy
clouds.

"Wait!" says Miss Vee, squeezin' my arm. "There'll be an encore. My
aunt's over there, and she's just wild; but it doesn't matter."

"You're a good sport," says I, joinin' in the hand-clappin' to jog the
orchestra into givin' us a repeat.

And just as they starts up the tune again I happens to glance up into
the little visitors' balcony at the end of the ballroom. Who do you
guess I sees watchin' us bug-eyed and open-mouthed? Why, Izzy Budheimer
and Miss Tessie! See? They've broke away from the lady shirtwaisters
durin' the supper hour so Izzy can give his new girl a glimpse of what a
real swell dance is like. Maybe he planned on stoppin' in at the
cloakroom too, and seein' if I was holdin' down the job proper.

Anyway, I can't blame him for doin' the open-face act when he discovers
me out on the floor with the belle of the ball. But all I has time to do
is send him up the chilly stare, and away we go again into another
one-two-three dream--me and Miss Vee.

"I don't care what becomes of me," she hums over my shoulder.

"Me either," says I.

"Silly boy!" says she. "What's your name?"

"Just Torchy," says I, "after my hair."

"I think curly red hair is cute," says she.

"I could go hoarse sayin' things like that about you," says I.

Maybe it was lucky, too, that this second installment was short, or I
might have gone clean mushy; for the way she could look at me out of
them big gray eyes of hers was--well, it was the real thing in thrills.
The wind-up came just as we gets around near the cloakroom door and we
stops.

"It was awfully good of you," says she.

"Gee!" says I. "Why, I could wear out all my old shoes doin' that, and
if ever you need----"

"S-s-sh!" says she. "Here comes my aunt!"

Not waitin' for any further diagram of the situation, I makes a dash
into the cloakroom, where I finds Izzy Budheimer gazin' puzzled at
Bobby, who's sittin' tilted back in his shirt sleeves with the braided
coat slung on the floor.

"Look here, Torchy!" begins Izzy. "What the----"

"On the job, Izzy, if you want to save it!" says I, wigglin' out of
Master Bobby's expensive clothes and chuckin' 'em at him.

"But why--what----" says Izzy, tryin' again.

"Don't stop to ask fool questions of a busy society man," says I; "but
jump into your uniform, get in your coop there, and prepare to put the
timelock on your conversation works. In about a minute there'll be a
delegation of old hens in here lookin' for a mysterious young gent with
incendiary hair who has disappeared. Your cue is to look innocent and
not know anything about it. See? If there's any explainin' to be done,
let Bobby do it."

"Oh, I say!" groans Bobby, jumpin' up, and by the time I've struck the
bottom stair on my way out he's grabbed his overcoat and is beatin' it
down to find his carriage.

How Miss Vee squared it with Aunty is a puzzle I never expect to find
out the answer to; but I'll risk her. She's a pink queen, she is, and
after that one waltz with her I can look cold-eyed at a row of Tessie
girls stretchin' from here to the Battery!




CHAPTER XII

LANDING ON A SIDE STREET


It was a little matter between me and Mother Sykes that starts me off to
hunt a new boardin' place. Lovely old girl, Mother Sykes is, one of the
kind that calls everybody "Deary" and collects in advance every Saturday
night. She's got one of them inquisitive landlady noses that looks like
it was made for pryin' up trunk covers and pokin' into bureau drawers.

That don't bother me any, though. It's only when I misses my swell
outfit, the one Benny had built for me to wear at his weddin', that I
gets sore. Course, she'd only borrowed it for Pa Sykes to wear on a
Sunday afternoon call, him bein' a little runt of a gent, with watery
eyes and a red nose, that never does anything on his own hook. And if he
hadn't denied it so brassy I shouldn't have called him down so hard,
right in the front hall with half the roomers listenin'.

"Dreamed it, eh, did I?" says I. "Well, listen here, Sykesy! Next time I
has an optical illusion of you paradin' out in any of my uniform,
there'll be doin's before the Sergeant!"

Then Mother Sykes rushes up from the kitchen and saves the fam'ly honor
by throwin' an indignation fit. I don't know how long it lasted; but she
was gettin' purple clear up under her false front when I slid out the
door and left her at it. Next day I noticed the sign hung up; but I
didn't know which sky parlor was vacant until I strolls in at
five-fifteen Friday night and finds my things out in the hall and a new
lodger in my room.

"Oh, well," says I, "what's a sudden move now and then to a free lance
like me?"

And as there ain't anybody in sight to register my fond farewells with,
I gathers up my suitcase and laundry bag, chucks the latchkey on the
stand in the front hall, and beats it. Not until I'm three blocks away
does I remember that all the cash I've got in my clothes is three
quarters and a dime, which comes of my listenin' to Mallory's advice
about soakin' my roll away in a bloomin' savings bank.

"Looks like I'd spend the night in a Mills hotel," says I, "unless I
find Mallory and make a touch."

It was chasin' him up that fetches me over on the West Side and through
one of them nice, respectable, private-house blocks just below 14th-st.
You know the kind, that begin at Fifth-ave. with a double-breasted old
brownstone, and end at Sixth with a delicatessen shop.

Well, I was moseyin' along quiet and peaceful, wonderin' how long since
anything ever really happened in that partic'lar section, when all of a
sudden I feels about a cupful of cold water strike me in the back of the
neck.

"Wow!" says I. "Who's playin' me for a goat now?"

With that I turns and inspects the windows of the house I'd just passed,
knowin' it must be some kid gettin' gay with the passersby. There's no
signs of any cut-up concealed behind the lace curtains, though, and none
of the sashes was raised. If it hadn't been for the way things had been
comin' criss-cross at me, I suppose I'd wiped off my collar and gone
along, lettin' it pass as a joke; but I wa'n't feelin' very mirthful
just then. I'm ready to follow up anything in the trouble line; so I
steps into the area, drops my baggage, shins up over the side of the
front steps, and flattens myself against the off side of the vestibule
door. Then I waits.

It ain't more'n a minute before I hears the door openin' cautious, and
all I has to do is shove my foot out and throw my weight against the
knob. Somebody lets out a howl of surprise, and in another minute I'm
inside, facin' a twelve-year-old kid armed with a green tin squirt gun.
He's one of these aristocratic-lookin' youngsters, with silky light
hair, big dark eyes, and a sulky mouth. Also he's had somethin' of a
scare thrown into him by being caught so unexpected; but some of his
nerve is still left.

"You--you get out of here!" he snarls.

"Not until you've had a dose of what you handed me, sonny," says I.
"Give it up now, Reggie boy!"

"I won't!" says he. "I--I'll have you thrown out!"

"You will, eh?" says I, makin' a rush for him.

"O-o-o-oh, Aunty, Aunty!" he squeals, dashin' down the hall.

Now, say, the way I was feelin' then, I'd have gone up against a whole
fam'ly, big brothers included; so a little thing like a call for Aunty
don't stop me at all. As he turns into the room on the left I'm only a
jump behind, and all that fetches me up is when he does a dive behind an
old lady in a big leather chair. She's a wide, heavy old party, with a
dinky white cap on her white hair, and kind of a resigned, patient look
on her face. Someway, she acts like she was more or less used to
surprises like this; for she don't seem much excited.

"Why, Hadley!" she remarks. "Whatever is the matter now?"

"He--he chased me into the house!" whines Master Hadley from behind the
chair.

"Did you?" says the old girl.

"Sure," says I. "He's too blamed fresh!"

"There, there!" says she. "You mustn't speak that way of Hadley. He is
only a little boy, you know."

"Yes'm," says I.

"And he was only indulging in innocent play," she goes on. "Come,
Hadley, untie me now. Please, Hadley!"

Say, I hadn't noticed it before, but the old girl is roped solid, feet
and arms, to the chair legs, and it's clear that when nobody was goin'
by for little Hadley to shoot at he'd been usin' Aunty for a target. The
damp spots on the wall behind the chair and one or two on her dress
showed that.

"I won't, unless you'll call Maggie and have her throw him out!" growls
Hadley.

"Oh, come, Hadley, be a good boy!" coaxes Aunty.

"Sha'n't!" says Hadley. "And next time I'll shoot ink at you."

"Now, Hadley!" protests Aunty.

"Excuse me, lady," says I, "but it looks to me like there was something
comin' to Hadley that I ought to tend to. This ain't on my account,
either, but yours. Now watch. Hi, freshy!" and I makes another dash for
him.

Well, he knows the lay of the land better'n I do, and he's quick on the
dodge, so we has a lively time of it for a couple of minutes, him
throwin' chairs in my way and hurdlin' sofas, Aunty beggin' us to quit
and callin' for Maggie, and me keepin' right on the job. But at last I
got him cornered. He makes a desp'rate duck and tries to butt me; but I
catches his head under my arm and down he goes on the rug. I'd just
yanked the squirt gun out of his hand and was emptyin' it down the back
of his neck, with him hollerin' blue murder, and Aunty strugglin' to get
loose, when the front door opens and in walks a couple of ladies, one
old and the other young.

And, say, you talk about your excitin' tableaux! In about two shakes
there's all kinds of excitement; for it seems one of the new arrivals is
Hadley's mommer, and she proceeds to join the riot.

"Oh, my darling boy! My darling!" she sings out. "What is happening! He
is being killed! Oh, he is being killed!"

"G'wan!" says I, gettin' up and exhibitin' the squirt gun. "I was only
handin' him some of the same sport he's been dealin' out to others.
It'll do him good."

"You--you young scoundrel!" says mommer. Then, turnin' to the old lady
who came in with her, she gasps out, "Zenobia, telephone for the
police!"

It's the real thing, too, and no flossy bluff about the lady's grouch.
She's a swell, haughty-lookin' party, and she acts like she was used to
havin' her own way about things. So the prospects begin to look squally.
Not that I'm one to curl up and shiver at sight of a cop. Give me plenty
of room to do the hotfoot act, and I don't mind guyin' any of them
pavement-pounders; but with me shut up in a house where I hadn't been
invited in, and a bunch of excited females as witnesses against me, it's
a diff'rent proposition. This was no time to weaken, though.

"Go ahead," says I. "Double six-O-four-two Gramercy; that's the green
light number for this district. And Uncle Patrick'll be glad to see you.
Tell him you got charges to make on his nephew. That'll tickle him to
death. Maybe I'll have something to say when we all get there, too."

"What do you mean?" says Hadley's mother.

"Counter complaint, that's all," says I. "Your little darling soaked me
first."

"It--it isn't true!" says she. "I don't believe it!"

And here Zenobia comes in with the soothin' advice. She's another
whitehaired old lady, lookin' something like the one in the chair, only
not so bulky and with more ginger about her. "Now, Sally," says she,
"let's not talk of calling in the police over a trifle. Hadley doesn't
appear to be hurt, and possibly he was somewhat at fault."

"The idea!" says Sally. "Why, I saw this young ruffian pommeling him.
And look! Martha is bound in her chair. He's a burglar!"

Oh, they had a great debate amongst 'em, Aunt Martha fin'lly admittin'
it was just a little prank of Hadley's, her being roped down; but she
was sure I had tried to murder him, just for nothing at all. Hadley says
so too. In fact, he tells seven diff'rent yarns in as many minutes, each
one makin' me out worse than the last.

"There!" says his mother. "Now, Zenobia, will you send for an officer?"

Nope, Zenobia wouldn't; anyway, not until she had more facts to go on.
She don't deny that maybe I'm kind of a suspicious-lookin' character,
and says it ain't been explained what I was doin' in there holdin'
little Hadley on the rug; but she don't want to ring up the cops unless
it's a clear case.

"You know, my dear," she winds up with, "Hadley is quite apt to get into
trouble."

"Zenobia Preble!" snorts Sally, her eyes blazin'. "And he your own flesh
and blood! Come, precious, mother will take you home, and you shall
never, never come to this house again!"

"There, Sally," begins Zenobia, "don't fly into a----"

"When my husband's mother chooses to insult me in her own home," says
Sally, "I hope I have spirit enough to resent it!"

Say, she had that and some left over. Inside of two minutes she's
hustled little Hadley into his things, and out they sails to her
carriage, leavin' the makin's of a first-class fam'ly row all prepared.

In the meantime Zenobia is tyin' Aunt Martha loose, and I'm standin'
around waitin' to see what's goin' to happen to me next. Course, I
expects the third degree; but she begins with Martha.

"Now what mischief was Hadley up to this time?" she asks.

And Martha sticks to it that it was nothing at all. He merely found that
old plant-sprayer and discovered that by unscrewing the nozzle it made a
fine squirt gun. To be sure, she had asked him not to use the water from
the goldfish globe; but he just would. Also he'd insisted on locking all
the servants downstairs, and when she tried to amuse him in other ways
he'd tied her to the chair.

But it was just Hadley's innocent fun. He hadn't harmed anyone, even if
he did squirt a little water on the postman and a delivery boy. She had
not minded it herself, and no one had been rude to him until I'd come
chasing in and handled him so rough. That was an outrage, and Martha
thought I ought to get a life sentence for it.

"Humph!" says Zenobia, turnin' to me. "Now, young man, what have you got
to say?"

"Ah, what's the use?" says I. "You've got the whole story now. I'd do
the same again."

"Relying on the fact that your uncle is a police captain?" says she.

"Nah," says I. "That was hot air."

"There, Zenobia!" says Martha. "I told you he was a bad boy."

"Are you?" says Zenobia.

"Well," says I, "that all depends on how you size me up. I ain't in the
crook class, nor I don't wear any Sunday-school medals, either."

"Who are you?" says she.

"Why, just Torchy," says I. "See--torch, Torchy," and I points to my
sunset coiffure.

"But who are your parents?" she goes on.

"Don't own any," says I. "I'm a double orphan and rustlin' for myself."

"Where do you live?" says she.

"Why," says I, "I don't live anywhere just now. I'm movin'; but I don't
know where to."

"I suppose that is either impudence or epigram," says she; "but never
mind. Perhaps you will tell me where you work?"

"I don't work at all," says I. "I'm head office boy for the Corrugated
Trust, and it's a cinch job."

"Indeed!" says she. "The Corrugated Trust? Let me see, who is at the
head of that concern?"

"Say," says I, "you don't mean you never heard of Old Hickory Ellins or
Mr. Robert, do you?"

She kind of smiles at that; but dodges makin' any answer.

"Well," says I, "do I get pinched, or just given the run? Either way,
I've got some baggage down by the area door that ought to be looked
after."

"Why, certainly, I will have it----" then she stops and looks me over
sort of shrewd. "Suppose," she starts in again, "you go and get it
yourself?"

"Sure!" says I, and it ain't until I'm outside that I sees this is just
her way of tryin' me out; for I has a fine chance to beat it. "Nix!"
thinks I. "I might as well see this thing through and get a decision."
So back I goes with the suitcase and laundry bag. She hadn't even
followed me to the door.

"Ah!" says she, lookin' up. "You weren't afraid to come back, then.
Why?"

"Oh, I guess it was because I banked on your givin' me a square deal,"
says I.

That gets a grin out of her. "Thank you very much for the compliment,"
says she. "I may say that the inquisition is over. However, I should
like to have you remain a little longer, if you care to. Won't you leave
your things in the hall there? Your hat and overcoat too."

"Zenobia," says Martha, wakin' up, "surely you are not going to----"

"Precisely," says Zenobia. "I am going to ask him to stay for dinner
with us. Will you?"

"Yep!" says I. "I never let any free eats get by me."

"But," gasps Martha, "you don't know who he is?"

"Neither does he know us," says Zenobia. "Torchy, I am Mrs. Zenobia
Preble. This is my sister, Miss Martha Hadley. She is very good, I am
very wicked, and we are both women of mature years. You will probably
find our society rather dull; but the dinner is likely to be fairly
good. Besides, I am feeling somewhat indebted to you."

"It's a go," says I, "if I can have a chance to wash up first."

"Of course," says she. Then she gives me a key and directions how to
find a certain door on the third floor. "My son's quarters," she goes
on, "that I have kept just as he left them twenty years ago. I shall
expect you to make yourself quite at home there."

Do I? Why, say, it's a back joint such as you might dream about: two
rooms and bath across the front of the house, guns and swords and such
knickknacks on the walls, a desk, a lot of books, and even a bathrobe
and slippers laid out. Say, while I was scrubbin' off some of the
inkstains and smoothin' down my hair with the silver-backed brushes I
felt like a young blood gettin' ready for a party.

Then after awhile I strolls down to the lib'ry and makes myself to home
some more. It's a comf'table place, with lots of big easy-chairs, nice
pictures on the wall, and no end of bookshelves. The old ladies has
cleared out, not even lockin' up any of the curios or sendin' a maid to
watch me.

And when it comes to the feed--why, say, it's a reg'lar course dinner,
such as you'd put up a dollar for at any of these high-class table dotty
ranches. Funny old china they had too, and a big silver coffeepot right
on the table. The only bad break I makes is just at the start, when I
dives into the soup without noticin' that Aunt Martha has her head down
and is mumblin' something about bein' thankful.

"Never mind," says Mrs. Preble. "We aren't included in this, anyway."

That begins the talk. I ain't put through the wringer, you understand,
but just follows Zenobia while she goes from one thing to another,
givin' her opinions of 'em and now and then callin' for mine. We got
real chatty too, and once in awhile she stops to laugh real hearty,
though I couldn't see where I'd got off any crack at all.

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