Washington Irving - "The Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus (Vol. II)"

Gouverneur Morris - "The Spread Eagle and Other Stories"

Henry James - "The Tragic Muse"

Jules Verne - "Le château des Carpathes"

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, Private Sec.

S >> Sewell Ford >> Torchy, Private Sec.




Cr-r-r-rack! It come mighty abrupt. For a minute I can't make out what
has happened; but when I sees the mast stagger and go lurchin'
overboard, sail and all, I thought it was a case of women and children
first.

"Oh, dear! How dreadful of you, Robert!" wails Ferdie. "We're wrecked!
Help! Help!"

"Oh, dry up, Ferdie!" says Mr. Robert. "No hysterics, please. Can't we
lose a mast or so without gettin' panicky? Just a weak turn-buckle on
the weather stay, that's all. Here, Vee, take the wheel, will you, and
see if you can keep her headed into it while we chop away this wreckage.
Torchy, you'll find a couple of axes over the forward lockers. Get 'em
up. Lively, now!"

We hacked away reckless, choppin' through wire stays and ropes, until we
has it all clear. Then we trims in the jigger and gets away from it. Two
minutes later and we've got the engine started and are wallowin' along
towards land. It was near six before we made the cove and anchored in
smooth water behind a little point.

Meanwhile the girls had gone below to explore the galley, and when we
fin'lly makes everything snug, and trails on down into the cabin to see
how they're comin' on, what do we find but the table all set and
Marjorie fillin' the water glasses. Also there's a welcome smell of food
driftin' about.

"Well, well!" says Mr. Robert. "Found something to eat, did you? What's
the menu?"

"Smothered potatoes with salt pork, baked beans, hard-tack, and
coffee," says Marjorie. "Here it comes."

And, say, maybe that don't sound so thrillin' to you, but to me it
listens luscious.

"By Jove!" says Mr. Robert, after he's sampled the layout. "Who's the
cook!"

Vee says it was Miss Hampton.

"Wha-a-at?" says he, starin'. "Not really?"

Miss Hampton comes back at him with that quirky smile of hers. "Why the
intense surprise?" says she.

"But I didn't dream," says Mr. Robert, "that you ever did anything
so--er----"

"Commonplace?"

"Early-Victorian," he corrects.

"Cook?" says she. "Oh, dear, yes! I can wash dishes, too."

"Can you?" says he. "I'm fine at wiping 'em."

"Such conceit!" says she.

"Then I'll prove it," says he, "right after dinner."

"I'll help you, Robert," says Marjorie.

"My dear sister," says he, "please consider the size of the _Pyxie's_
galley."

So, as there didn't seem to be any more competition, after we'd finished
everything in sight we left the two of 'em joshin' away merry, doin' the
dishes. Later on, while Ferdie's pokin' around, he makes a discovery.

"Oh, I say, Bob," he calls down, "there's a box up here that hasn't been
opened. Groceries, I think. Come have a look at it."

Mr. Robert he takes one glance and turns away disgusted. "No," says he.
"I know what's in there. No use at all on this trip." Then, as he passes
me he whispers: "I say, when you get a chance, chuck that box overboard,
will you?"

I nods, grinnin', and explains confidential to Vee.

And half an hour or so afterwards, ten perfectly good volumes of Bernard
Shaw splashed overboard.

Next we sends Ferdie to take a peek down the companionway and report.

"They're looking at a chart," says he.

"Same side of the table," says I, "or opposite?"

"Why, they're both on one side."

"Huh!" says I, nudgin' Vee. "That highbrow line might work out in time,
but for a quick get-together proposition I'm backin' the dishpan."




CHAPTER XVIII

WHEN ELLA MAY CAME BY


Believe me, this job of bein' private sec. all day and doublin' as
assistant Cupid after hours may be entertainin' and all that, but it
ain't any drowsy detail. Don't leave you much time for restin' your
heels high or framin' up peace programmes. Course, the fact that Vee is
in with me on this affair between Mr. Robert and Miss Hampton is a help.
I ain't overlookin' that.

And after our mix-up yachtin' cruise, when we lost a mast and Bernard
Shaw overboard the same day, it looked like we'd got everything all
straightened out. Why not? Mr. Robert seems to have decided that his
lady-love wa'n't such a confirmed highbrow as he'd suspected, and he was
doin' the steady comp'ny act constant and enthusiastic, just the way he
does everything he tackles, from yacht racin' to puttin' a crimp in an
independent. In fact, he wa'n't doin' much else.

"Where's Robert?" demands Old Hickory, marchin' out of his private
office and glarin' at the closed roll-top.

"I expect he's takin' the afternoon off," says I, maybe grinnin' a bit.

"Huh!" says the boss. "The second this week! I thought that fool regatta
was over."

"Yes, sir, it is," says I. "Besides, he didn't enter."

"Oh!" says Mr. Ellins. "Then it isn't a case of a sixty-footer!"

"The one he's tryin' to manage now is about five-foot six," says I.

"Eh?" says Old Hickory, workin' his eyebrows. "That Miss Hampton again?"

I nods.

"Torchy," he goes on, "of course I've no particular right to be
informed, being only his father, but--er--about how much longer should
you say that affair would run before it comes to some sort of climax? In
other words, how is he getting on?"

"The last I knew," says I, "he was comin' strong. Course, he made a
couple of false starts there at the send-off, but now he seems to have
struck his gait."

"Really!" says Old Hickory. "And now, solely in the interest of the
Corrugated Trust, could you go so far as to predict a date when he might
reasonably be expected to resume business activities?"

I chews that over a minute, and runs my fingers thoughtful through my
red thatch.

"Nope," says I. "If I was any such prize guesser as that, I'd be down in
Wall Street buckin' the market. Maybe after Sunday, though, I might make
a report one way or the other."

"Ah! You scent a crisis, do you?" says he.

"It's this way," says I. "Marjorie's givin' a little week-end house
party for 'em out at her place, and--well, you know how that's apt to
work out at this stage of the game."

"You think it may end the agony?" says he.

"There'll be a swell chance for twosin'," says I. "Marjorie's plannin'
for that."

"I see," says Mr. Ellins. "Undisturbed propinquity--a love charm that
was old when the world was young. And if Marjorie is managing the
campaign, it's all over with Robert."

That was my dope on the subject too, after I'd seen the layout of her
first skirmish. There was just half a dozen of us mobilized at this
flossy suburban joint Saturday afternoon, but from the start it was
plain that four of us was on hand only to keep each other out of the way
of this pair. Course, Vee and I hardly needs to have the cue passed. We
were satisfied to hunt up a veranda corner of our own and stick to it.

But Brother-in-law Ferdie, with that doubleply slate roof of his, needs
watchin' close. He has a nutty idea that he ought to be sociable, and
he no sooner spots Mr. Robert and Miss Elsa Hampton, chattin' cozy in a
garden nook, than he's prompted to kick in and explain to 'em all about
the Latin names of the surroundin' vines and shrubbery. Which brings out
business of distress from Marjorie. So one of us has to go shoo him
away.

"Why--er--what's the matter?" says he, blinkin' puzzled, after he's been
led off.

"You was makin' a noise like a seed catalogue, that's all," says I.
"Chop it, can't you?"

Ferdie only stares at me through his thick window-panes and puts on an
injured air. Half an hour later, though, he's at it again.

"You tell him, Torchy," sighs Marjorie. "Try to make him understand."

So I makes a strong stab.

"Look," says I, towin' him off on a thin excuse. "That ain't any
convention they're holdin' out there. So far as they know, it's just a
happy chance. If they're let alone the meetin' may develop tender
moments. Anyway, you might give 'em a show, and if they want you bad
they can run up a flag. See? There's times, you know, when two is bliss,
but a third is a blister. Get me?"

I expect he did, in a way. The idea filters through sort of slow, but he
finally decides that, for some reason too deep for him to dig up, he
ain't wanted mixin' around folksy.

So from then on until dinnertime our couple had all the chance in the
world. Looked like they was doin' noble, too; for every once in a while
we could hear that ripply laugh of hers, or Mr. Robert's hearty
chuckle--which should have been good signs that they was enjoyin' each
other's comp'ny. We even had to send out word it was time to doll up for
dinner.

But an affair like that is like a feather balanced on your nose. Any
boob is liable to open a door on you. In this case, all was lovely and
serene until Marjorie gets this 'phone call. I hears her summonin' Vee
panicky and sketchin' out the details.

"It's Ella May Buell!" says she. "She's down at the station."

Seems that Miss Buell was a boardin'-school friend who was about to cash
in one of them casual blanket invitations that girls give out so
reckless--you know, the Do-come-and-see-me-any-time kind. And, with her
livin' down in Alabama or Georgia somewhere, maybe it looked safe at the
time. But now she was on her way to the White Mountains for a summer
flit, and she'd just remembered Marjorie for the first time in three
years.

"Goodness!" says Marjorie, whisperin' husky across the hall. "Someone
ought to go right down to meet her. I can't, of course; and Ferdie's
only begun to dress."

"Ask Torchy," suggests Vee.

And, as I'm all ready except another half hitch to my white tie, I'm
elected. Three minutes more and I'm whizzin' down in the limousine to
receive the Southern delegate. And say, when I pipes the fairy in the
half-masted skirt and the zippy Balkan bonnet, I begins bracin' myself
for what I could see comin'.

One of these pouty-lipped, rich-tinted fairies, Ella May is, wearin' a
baby stare and chorus-girl ear-danglers. Does she wait to be hunted up
and rescued? Not her! The minute I drops out of the machine, she trips
right over and gives me the hail.

"Are you looking for me?" says she. "I hope you are, for I've been
waiting at this wretched station for ages."

"If it's Miss Buell, I am," says I.

"Of course I'm Miss Buell," says she. "Help me in. Now get my bags.
They're inside, Honey."

"Inside what?" I gasps.

"Why, the station," says she. "And give the man a quarter for
me--there's a dear."

Talk about speed! Leave it to the Dixie girls of this special type. I
used to think our Broadway matinee fluffs was about the swiftest
fascinators using the goo-goo tactics. But say, when it comes right
down to quick action, some of these cotton-belt belles can throw in a
high gear that makes our Gwendolyns look like they was only hittin' on
odd cylinders. Ella May was a sample. We was havin' our first glimpse of
each other, but in less 'n forty-five seconds by the watch she'd called
me honey, dearied me twice, and patted me chummy on the arm. And we
hadn't driven two blocks before she had me snuggled up in the corner
like we was old friends.

"Tell me, Honey," says she, "what is dear old Marjorie's hubby like?"

"Ferdie!" says I. "Why, he's all right when you get to know him."

"Oh!" says she. "That kind! But aren't there any other men around?"

"Only Mr. Robert Ellins," says I.

"Really!" says she, her eyes widenin'! "Bob Ellins! That's nice. I met
him once when he came to see Marjorie at boarding school. I was such an
infant then, though. But now----"

She dives into her vanity bag and proceeds to retouch the scenic effects
on her face.

"Don't waste it," says I. "He's sewed up--a Miss Hampton. She's there,
too."

"Pooh!" pouts Miss Buell. "Who cares? She doesn't keep him in a cage,
does she?"

"It ain't that," says I; "but his eyesight for anyone else is mighty
poor."

"Oh, is it?" says she, sarcastic and doubtful. "We'll see about that.
But, anyway, I'm beginning to be glad I came. Can you guess why?"

"I'm a wild guesser," says I. "Shoot it."

"Because," says she, "I think I'm going to like you rather well."

More business of cuddlin', and a hand dropped careless on my shoulder.
We were still more 'n a mile from the house, and if I was to do any
blockin'-off stunt, it was high time I begun. I twists my head around
and gazes at the careless hand.

"Excuse me, sister," says I, "but before this goes any further I got to
ask a question. Are your intentions serious?"

"Why, the idea!" says she. "What on earth do you mean?"

"I only want to be sure," says I, "that you ain't tryin' to trifle with
my young affections."

She stiffens at that and goes a little gaspy. Also she grabs away the
hand.

"Of all the conceit!" says she. "Anyone might think that--that----"

"So they might," says I. "Of course, it's sweet to be picked out this
way; but it's a little sudden, ain't it? You know, I'm kind of young
and----"

"I've a great mind to box your ears!" breaks in Ella May.

"In that case," says I, "I couldn't even promise to be a brother to
you."

"Wretch!" says she, her eyes snappin'.

"Sorry," says I, "but you'll get over it. It may be a little hard at
first, but in time you'll meet another who will make you forget."

That last jab had her speechless, and all she could do was run her
tongue out at me. But it worked. After that she snuggled in her own
corner, and when we lands at the house she's treatin' me with cold
disdain, almost as if I'd been a reg'lar brother. There's no knowin',
either, what report Marjorie got. Must have been something interestin',
for when she finally comes down after steerin' Miss Buell to her room,
she gives me the knowin' wink.

Ella May gets even, though. She holds up dinner forty-five minutes while
she sheds her travelin' costume for an evenin' gown. And it's some
startlin' creation she springs on us about the time we're ready to bite
the glass knobs off the dinin'-room doors. She's a stunner, all right,
and she sails down with that baby stare turned on full voltage.

You'd most thought, though, with all the hints me and Marjorie had
dropped, and her seein' Mr. Robert and Miss Hampton chattin' so busy
together, that she'd have hung up the net and waited until she struck
better huntin' grounds. But not Ella May. Here was a perfectly good man;
and as long as nobody had handcuffs on him, or hadn't guarded him with
barbed wire, she was ready to take a chance.

Just how she managed it I couldn't say, even if it was done right under
my eyes; but when we starts in for dinner she's clingin' sort of playful
to one side of Mr. Robert, chatterin' a steady stream, while Miss
Hampton is left to drift along on the other, almost as if she was an
"also-ran."

Mr. Robert wa'n't havin' such a swell time that meal, either. About once
in three or four minutes he'd get a chance to say a few words to Miss
Hampton, but most of the time he was busy listenin' to Ella May. So was
the rest of us, in fact. Not that she was sayin' anything important or
specially interestin'. Mainly it's snappy personal anecdotes--about Ella
May, or her brother Glenn, or Uncle Wash Lee, the Buell fam'ly butler.
Or else she's teasin' Mr. Robert about not rememberin' her better,
darin' him to look her square in the eyes, and such little tricks.

Say, she was some whirlwind performer, take it from me. I discovers that
everybody was "Honey" to her, even Ferdie. And you should have seen him
tint up and glance panicky at Marjorie the first time she put it over on
him.

As for Miss Hampton, she appears to be enjoyin' the whole thing. She
watches Miss Buell sparkle and roll her eyes, and only smiles sort of
amused. For what Ella May is unlimberin' is an attack in force, as a war
correspondent would put it--an assault with cavalry, heavy guns, and
infantry. And, for all his society experience, Mr. Robert don't seem to
know how to meet it. He acts sort of dazed and helpless, now and then
glancin' appealin' across to Sister Marjorie, or around at Miss Hampton.

All that evenin' the attack goes on, Ella May workin' the spell
overtime, gettin' Mr. Robert to let her read his palm, pinnin' flowers
in his buttonhole, and keepin' him cornered; while the rest of us sits
around like cheap deadheads that had been let in on passes.

And next mornin', when Mr. Robert makes a desperate stab to duck right
after breakfast, only to be captured again and led into the garden,
Marjorie finally gets her mad up.

"Really," says she, "this is too absurd! Of course, she always was an
outrageous flirt. You should have seen her at boarding school--with the
music professor, the principal's brother, the school doctor. Twice they
threatened to send her home. But after I've told her that Robert was
practically engaged to Miss Hampton--well, it must be stopped, that's
all. Ferdie, can't you think of some way?"

"Eh?" says Ferdie. "What? How?"

That's the sort of help he contributes to this council of war Marjorie's
called on the side terrace.

And all Vee will do is to chuckle. "It's such, a joke!" says she.

"But it isn't," says Marjorie. "Do you know where Elsa Hampton is at
this minute? In the library, reading a magazine--alone! And she and
Robert were getting on so nicely, too. Torchy, can't you suggest
something?"

"Might slip out there with a rope and tie her to a tree while Mr. Robert
makes his escape," says I.

A snicker from Vee.

"Please!" says Marjorie. "This is really serious. I can't explain to
Elsa. But what must she think of Robert? I've simply got to get rid of
that girl somehow. She's one of the kind, you know, who would stay and
stay until----"

"Hello!" says I, glancin' out towards the entrance-gates. "What sort of
a delegation is this?"

A tall, loppy young female in a sagged skirt and a faded pink
shirtwaist is driftin' up the driveway, towin' a bow-legged
three-year-old boy by one hand and luggin' a speckle-faced baby on her
hip.

"Oh!" says Marjorie. "That scamp of a Bob Flynn's Katie again."

Seems Flynn had been one of Mr. Robert's chauffeurs that he'd wished
onto Ferdie a year or so back on account of Flynn's bein' married and
complainin' he couldn't support his fam'ly in the city. If he could get
a place in the country, where the rents wa'n't so high and his old
chowder-party friends wa'n't so thick, Flynn thought he might do better.
He had steadied down for a while, too, until he took a sudden notion to
slope and leave his interestin' fam'ly behind.

"She's coming to ask if we've heard anything of him," goes on Marjorie.
"I've a good notion to send her straight to Robert."

"Say," says I, havin' one of my thought-flashes, "wait a minute. We
might--do I understand that the flitting hubby's name was Robert?"

Marjorie nods.

"And will you stand for anything I can pull off that might jar Ella
May's strangle-hold over there!"

"Anything," says Marjorie.

"Then lend me this deserted fam'ly for a few minutes," says I. "I ain't
had time to sketch out the plot of the piece exactly, but if you say so
I'll breeze ahead."

It was going to be a bit raw, I'll admit; but Marjorie has insisted that
it's a desperate case. So, after a short confab with Mrs. Flynn and the
kids, they're turned over to me.

"I ain't sure, ma'am," says I, "that young Mr. Ellins can spare the
time. He's pretty busy just now. But maybe I can break in long enough to
ask him, and if he's heard anything--well, you can be handy. Suppose you
wait here at the garden gate. No, leave it open, that way."

I had 'em grouped conspicuous and dramatic; and, with Mrs. Flynn's straw
lid tilted on one side, and the youngster whimperin' to be let loose
among the flowers, and the baby sound asleep with its mouth open, the
picture was more or less pathetic.

At the far end of the garden path was a different sort of scene. Ella
May was making Mr. Robert hold one end of a daisy chain she was weavin',
and she's prattlin' away kittenish when I edges up, scufflin' my feet
warnin' on the gravel. She greets me with a pout. Mr. Robert hangs his
head sort of sheepish, but asks hopeful:

"Well, Torchy?"

"She--she's here again, sir," says I.

"Eh?" says he, starin' puzzled. "Who is here?"

"S-s-s-sh!" says I, shakin' my head mysterious.

All of which don't escape Miss Buell. Her ears are up and her eyes wide
open. "What is it?" she asks.

"If I could have a few words in private with you, Mr. Robert," says I,
"maybe it would be----"

"Nonsense!" says he. "Out with it."

"Just as you like," says I. "Only, she's brought the kids with her this
time. She says how she wants her Robert back."

"Wha-a-at!" he gasps.

"Couldn't keep her out," says I. "You know how she is. There they are,
at the gate."

I don't know which was quicker to turn and look, him or Ella May. And
just then Mrs. Flynn happens to be gazin' our way, pleadin' and
expectant.

"Oh!" says Mr. Robert, laughin' careless. "Katie, eh?"

Miss Buell has jumped and is starin' at the group. Then, at that laugh
of Mr. Robert's, she whirls on him.

"Brute!" says she. "I'm glad she's found you."

With which she dashes towards the house and disappears, leavin' Mr.
Robert gawpin' after her.

"Why," says he, "you--you don't suppose she could have imagined
that--that----"

"Maybe she did," says I. "My fault, I expect. I could find her, though,
and explain how it was. I'll bet that inside of five minutes she'd be
back here finishin' the floral wreath. Shall I?"

"Back here?" he echoes, kind of vague. Then he comes to.

"No, no!" says he. "I--I'd rather not. I want first to---- Where is Miss
Hampton, Torchy?"

Well, I gives him full directions for findin' her, slips Mrs. Ryan the
twenty he sends her instead of news from hubby, and then goes in, to
find that Ella May is demandin' to be taken to the next train. We saw
that she caught it, too, before she changed her mind.

"By George!" Mr. Robert whispers confidential to me, as the limousine
rolls off with her in it, "if I could insure against such risks as that,
I would take out a policy."

"You can," says I. "Any justice of the peace or minister will fix you up
for life."

Does that sink in? I wouldn't wonder. Anyway, from the hasty glimpse I
caught of him and Miss Hampton strollin' out in the moonlight that
night, it looked that way.

So I did have a bulletin for Old Hickory Monday mornin'.

"It's all over but the shoutin'," says I.




CHAPTER XIX

SOME HOOP-LA FOR THE BOSS


I must say it wa'n't such a swell time for Mr. Robert to be indulgin' in
any complicated love affair. You know how business has been, specially
our line. And our directors was about as calm as a bunch of high school
girls havin' hysterics. Jumpy? Say, some of them double-chinned old
plutes couldn't reach for a glass of ice water without goin' through
motions like they was shakin' dice.

It's this sporty market that had got on their nerves. You know, all
these combine rumors--this bunk about Germany buyin' up plants
wholesale, and the grand scrabble to fill all them whackin' big foreign
orders, with steamer charters about as numerous as twin baby carriages
along Riverside Drive. Why, say, at one time there you could have sold
us ferryboats or garbage-scows, we was so hungry for anything that would
carry ocean freights.

And, of course, with Old Hickory Ellins at the helm, the Corrugated
Trust was right in the thick of it. About twice a week some fool yarn
was floated about us. We'd sold out to Krupps and was goin' to close;
we'd tied up with Bethlehem; we'd underbid on a flock of submarines and
was due for a receivership--oh, a choice lot of piffle!

But a few of them nervous old boys, who was placid enough at annual
meetin's watchin' a melon bein' cut, just couldn't stand the strain.
Every time they got fed up on some new dope from the Wall Street panic
peddlers, they'd come around howlin' for a safe and sane policy. I stood
it until here the other mornin' when a bunch of soreheads showed up
before nine o'clock and proceeds to hold an indignation meetin' in front
of my desk.

"Gwan!" says I. "Nobody's rockin' the boat but you. Go sit on your
checkbooks."

They just glares at me.

"Where is Old Hickory?" one of 'em wants to know.

"About now," says I, "Mr. Ellins would be finishin' the last of three
soft-boiled eggs. He'll show up here at nine-forty-five."

"Mr. Robert Ellins, then?" demands another.

"Say, I'm no puzzle editor," says I. "Maybe he'll be here to-day and
maybe he won't."

"But we couldn't find him yesterday, either," comes back an old goat
with tufts in his ears.

"That's a way he has these days," says I.

No use tryin' to smooth things over. It's Mr. Robert they'd been sore on
all along, suspectin' him of startin' all the wild schemes just because
he's young. I'd heard 'em, after they'd moved into the directors' room,
insistin' that he ought to be asked to resign. And what they was beefin'
specially about to-day was because of a tale that a Chicago syndicate
had jumped in and bought the _Balboa_, a 10,000-ton Norwegian freighter
that we was supposed to have an option on. It was the final blow. That
satisfied 'em they was being sold out, and their best guess was that Mr.
Robert was turnin' the trick.

I was standin' by, listenin' to the general grouch develop, and
wonderin' how long before they'd organize a lynchin' committee, when I
hears the brass gate slam, and into the private office breezes Mr.
Robert himself, lookin' fresh and chirky, his hat tilted well back, and
swingin' a bamboo walkin'-stick. When he sees me, he springs a wide grin
and grabs me by the shoulders.

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