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CONTEMPORARY ISSUES IN THE
WORLDWIDE ANGLICAN COMMUNION
Contemporary Issues in the
Worldwide Anglican
Communion
Powers and Pieties
Edited by
ABBY DAY
University of Kent, UK
First published 2016 by Ashgate Publishing
Notice:
Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered
trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation
without intent to infringe.
Abby day has asserted her right under the Copyright, designs and
patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the editor of this work.
2015017488
ISBN 9781472444134 (hbk)
Contents
List of Tables
List of Contributors
Preface
Index
List of Tables
Acknowledgements
Some people were invited to the symposium to participate
through questions, observations and discussions without the
expectation of submitting a chapter, but whose participation
was key to the way many contributors refined and shaped
their chapters: Grace Davie, University of Exeter; Emily
Falconer, London South Bank University; Allison Fenton,
Durham University; Tim Ling, Church House; Sarah Lloyd,
Ashgate Publishing; Stephen Parker, University of
Worcester; Katherine Prior, Independent Historian; Bev
Skeggs, Goldsmiths, University of London; Danny
Zschomler, Goldsmiths, University of London.
Thanks also to the ESRC and to Lambeth Palace for
funding the Symposium; the University of Kent for
administrative support; Andy Christie, Naomi Turner, Emily
Lynn and Scarlett Shearwood for their editorial help ; Sarah
Lloyd at Ashgate for her support of the project and the
collection from its inception and all the anonymous research
participants whose generosity with their time, insights and
observations made the researchers’ work possible.
SECTION I
Generational Shifts
Chapter 1
Farewell to Generation A: The Final
‘Active Generation’ in the Anglican
Communion
Abby Day
Her remark that ‘it wasn’t out in the open’ suggests another
characteristic of Generation A: some things are just not
discussed, which is not to say they are not noticed. several
churches I visited during my study had openly gay ministers,
yet however subtly or overtly I tried to engage women in
discussion about this, I was rebuffed with the same sort of
response : ‘none of my business’, ‘don’t really notice’ and so
on.
From an organisation of both communion and conflict I
was, nevertheless, able to draw some broad themes to
characterise what I came to regard as Generation A, filling a
gap in the scholarly record about this specific generation as
more attention has been focused on other issues, such as
youth, non-Christian religions, people who say they are
spiritual but not religious or the role of women as priests and
bishops. Ask someone of the Baby Boomer generation born
in the 1940s and 1950s, the teenagers of the great cultural
revolution of the 1960s, what they think of religion and the
answer is likely to be either that they are indifferent, or
3
perhaps spiritual but not religious. Their children, the
Generation X and Y, are more likely to belong to the growing
cohort of people who say they have no religion: according to
the Office for National Statistics this number almost doubled
in 10 years and now represents one-quarter of the UK
population. Research is plentiful into Generation X,
Generation Y, Generation Z. But what about Generation A,
the mothers and grandmothers of those Baby Boomers and
their offspring? In every church I visited during the course of
my research I heard the same story: the numbers attending
mainstream Anglican churches are in decline and tend to be
composed mostly of older people, with older women
performing the bulk of voluntary work in the church and
sometimes outside the church in countries with few or
insufficient state-supported social services. Nevertheless this
female Christian Generation A is on the cusp of a
catastrophic decline in mainstream Christianity that
accelerated during the ‘post-war’ (post-1945) period. The age
profile of mainstream Christianity represents an increasingly
aging pattern, with Generation A not being replaced by their
children or grandchildren. Yet as Prelinger (1992, 3) noted:
‘Oddly, few so far have addressed the situation of women in
the mainline or asked what it may have to tell us about the
mainline’s widely analyzed “decline”’. Until now, we have
known little about Generation A’s mainstream religious lives,
and even less about how they influence and are influenced by
their other social relations and social networks. The lacunae
is troubling as this is the generation who have sometimes
been seen to lead a parallel church. They attend the
mainstream churches every Sunday, and are often the only
attendees of mid-week services. They - even in their 80s -
clean the church, wash the vestments, polish the brasses,
organise bring-and-buy sales or jumbles, bake cakes and visit
vulnerable people in their homes. Their often- invisible
labour not only populates the physical space of the church, it
ensures its continuity and enriches surrounding
communities.
Working often behind the scenes as they do their
invisibility is doubled, as they do not even feature in official
documents. National churches have historically not collected
statistics about gender and therefore leave a gap that
prompts the question: do they only count what counts ? A
major reason for the previous gap in knowledge about this
female generation is an androcentric methodological bias:
the national churches do not collect data about laywomen
and, hence, church scholars have continued to ignore them.
Over-generalisations from thin data produce grand
narratives about the apparent religiosity of women when, in
fact, the empirical evidence about lived religion in the
churches lacks ethnographic depth amidst studies that prefer
more at-distant methods. Underlying this is a pervasive
ignorance and neglect of laywomen reflected in church
practices that continue to render them invisible.
Generation A is irreplaceable and unique, and as a
‘generation’ it shares specific values, beliefs, behaviours and
orientations to belonging and a sense of self-identification
that set it apart from other ‘generations’. When this
generation finally disappears within the next five to 10 years,
its knowledge, insights and experiences will be lost forever
and so will its contribution to theories about gender,
mainstream religion, generation, age, voluntary labour and
informal acts of community sustainability and well-being.
My research findings tend to problematise the
overwhelming tendency by outsiders to stereotype older
women as worthy, dutiful, caring women in contrast with
their apparently individualised, selfish Baby Boomer
children. In fact, Generation A rarely criticise their offspring;
they did, after all, raise them. Generation A differ markedly
from their progeny, it is argued here, in one significant
respect: they desire and gain pleasure from a relationship
with a church-based, male-dominated earthly and spiritual
authority. It is an authority that in turn supports the sacred
institutions of their day of nation and of family. As Demerath
(1992, 46) has suggested, the Anglican Church in the UK
represents a particular kind of authority: ‘The Anglican
Confession has become a symbol of much more than religion
itself, given its ties to the throne, the past, and to civilization
at its zenith’.
The kind of spiritual authority valued by Generation A is
both masculine and ‘traditional’, embodied in the depiction
of their god, their saviour and their priest. Generation A’s god
is loving and beloved, if a little stern at times: a lot, it
transpires, like them, symbolised in an institution that in
many ways mirrors the ones these women, married or
unmarried, value most highly: the nation and the nuclear
family. And, for most of them, he (and unquestionably ‘he’) is
central to their lives not only on Sundays but throughout the
week. Most who know Generation A will agree they are hard-
working, intelligent, educated, smart, funny and sometimes
intimidating women. What they often fail to notice, blinded
by a particular representation of religion, is that they are,
above all else, religious women; holy women, deeply spiritual
women. For the remainder of this chapter I will focus on just
five observations about Generation A:
1. Gender and Generation
2. Pew Power
3. Doing Theology
4. Kinship and Community
5. The Final Active Generation
5
Gender and Generation
Women have been at the heart, but not the head, of the
Church of England throughout its history, from the moment
King Henry VIII fell in love with Anne Boleyn to
contemporary schisms over women priests and bishops. And
yet, despite their prominence in church politics and power
struggles, everyday laywomen remain remarkably absent
from the record. Popular descriptions of the Church of
England today as ‘the Conservative Party at prayer’ are only
partly facetious. In the United states, Episcopal women in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were significant
fundraisers for schools and hospitals, operating what was
described as a ‘parallel church’. Although smaller numerically
than the non-conformist and evangelical churches, the
members of the Anglican/Episcopal churches have
historically been disproportionately represented in society’s
establishment and perceived as the ‘national’ churches.
Women have been intrinsically implicated in the constitution
and maintenance of that network. There are several
important theories that seek to make sense of women’s
religiosity to explain why women seem to be more religious
than men. Common theses of this apparent phenomenon
centre on biology, deprivation, risk profile and socialisation
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feet trod upon the ashes. Well, that is good, so far as it goes. It tells me
where he was, and also the kind of footwear he had. But he didn’t come in
by way of this flue, wide as it is.”
The room was at the back of the house, and heavy curtains were drawn
over the windows. Nick Carter flung one of the curtains aside and peered
out. He saw that there was a long balcony outside, which passed both
windows, and he knew it had been arranged thus for a fire escape.
It was not like the ordinary contrivance of that kind, such as is seen on
apartment houses and some business buildings.
It had been built by the owner of the house, and was of an ornate
description, with no ladder leading to the ground. Instead, there was a rope
ladder, with steel crosspieces, which could be let down if desired. The ladder
was out of reach of any burglar who might get to the back of the premises
and seek to get in by way of the study window.
The windows were both fastened with spring catches. These fastenings
were heavy and of modern pattern. But Nick Carter smiled sadly, as he
reflected how easy it would be for a professional cracksman to negotiate
them. A thin-bladed knife would be the only tool required. The fellow who
had murdered Anderton may not have been a professional burglar, but
assuredly he would be ingenious enough to get one of these windows open,
and close it again when he had finished his work.
The detective, flash lamp in hand, stepped out on the balcony. The floor
was of painted steel, and solid. Most fire escapes have a railed floor, but this
had been put up under the eye of the dead man, and he wanted it like the
floor of a room.
Directing the strong, white light of his lamp on the floor of the balcony,
Nick Carter did not discover anything that would help him for the first few
minutes. Suddenly a low ejaculation of satisfaction escaped him.
“By George! Here it is! But what does it mean?”
He had found a slight smudge of wood ash at the very end of the balcony.
It was so small that it might easily have been overlooked by any but the
sharpest eyes. Even the detective had passed it over several times.
He knelt down and put the light close to it. Beyond question, there was a
gray-white mark, but it bore nothing of the shape of a human foot.
“Well, I’ll have to try something else.”
He took from his pocket a powerful magnifying glass, and, adjusting the
light properly, again stared hard at the ash mark. This time he was rewarded
for his patience by a discovery. Clearly defined, was the shape of a foot. In
the one place where the smudge was pronounced, as well as around it, the
detective made out the impress. It was very indistinct over most of its area,
but certainly was there, now that he had the magnifier to help him.
“So far, good! But how did he get up here, and again, how did he get
away. If he didn’t get up from the ground below the balcony, which way did
he come?”
Nick Carter still held his magnifying glass and flash in his fingers, as he
reflected, his gaze fell upon the top of the railing at the end of the balcony.
“I see now, I believe!” he murmured.
The flash had thrown its light upon the railing, and quickly he brought his
glass into play at the same spot. A smile of satisfaction spread over his keen
features, and he carefully looked all along the railing.
“He stood on this railing. But apparently with only one foot. What does
that mean? Where did he go? How did he get here? Hello! What are these
splinters of wood? There has been a plank laid on the railing. Yes, here is
some of the paint scraped off.”
He turned off his flash, and stood in the darkness, considering. The voice
of Chick came from below:
“Hello, chief! Are you there?”
“Yes,” answered Nick guardedly. “What have you found?”
“Nothing much. But it may have something to do with the case that the
next house to this is empty. The people who live here are away—gone to
California for two months. Went a week ago. Ruggins told me.”
“Ruggins? Oh, yes—the butler. Well? Has anybody been seen in the
house since the family went? I suppose there is a caretaker?”
“Yes. There is an old man who lives there by himself. But he hasn’t been
seen for three days. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”
“Any lights in the house?”
“Yes. The light in the room the old man uses, in the basement, has been
going to-night. Before that it was dark. Now it is dark again.”
“Come up here, Chick, to the study. I’ll open the door.”
Nick Carter went through the window, carefully closing it and pulling the
heavy curtains back into place. Then he opened the door, and, as soon as
Chick was inside, closed it again.
“The servants are kind of scared,” said Chick. “But I think that is only
because they know Mr. Anderton is lying dead in his bedroom. Only
Ruggins and one of the maids know he was killed, and they are keeping their
mouths shut.”
“I hope they are,” remarked Nick coldly.
“You can depend on that. Ruggins is a close-mouthed fellow, and he has
the girl hypnotized, I think. She has an idea he is the greatest ever, and he
can make her do anything. I heard some of the other maids talking about
Ruggins and Amelia going to be married next spring.”
Nick Carter smiled at this story of romance, which he regarded as a lucky
thing, if it would have the effect of keeping the maid from talking. But he
made no comment. He only asked Chick how he had found out about the
house next door.
“Ruggins told me,” replied Chick. “Oh, yes. And he said something else.
There is a tall Japanese professor, who used to visit there sometimes.”
“How do you know he was Japanese?” interrupted Nick.
“Ruggins. He said so. I told him Japanese men were not generally tall. He
came back at me by saying this one was, so there was nothing more to be
said. The professor’s name is Tolo. That’s all Ruggins could tell me—
Professor Tolo.”
There came a knock at the door at that moment, and Chick, at Nick
Carter’s request, opened it. He confronted Ruggins, who had come up with a
card in his hand.
“Gentleman would like to speak to Mr. Carter,” he announced.
Nick looked at the name on the card. Then he started, as he told Ruggins
to send the gentleman up.
“Chick,” he whispered, when the butler had gone. “Who do you think this
is, wants to see me?”
“I don’t know. Who?” asked Chick.
“Professor Tolo,” was Nick Carter’s unexpected reply.
CHAPTER IV.
The man who came into the room, bowing low and smiling with the
suave courtesy of the Oriental, was more than six feet in height, but not
stout. He looked as if he might have a great deal of strength in his wiry
frame, and his high forehead, which showed extensively under the narrow-
brimmed felt hat he wore far back on his head, was that of an intellectual
man. The color of his skin suggested that he might be a Japanese. This was
confirmed by his wiry black hair.
He appeared to have very sharp black eyes, but Nick Carter could not see
them very well, because they were behind large, thick glasses, with heavy,
tortoise-shell frames.
“I must ask your pardon for intruding, Mr. Carter,” began Professor Tolo.
“But Mr. Anderton was a warm friend of mine, and I have just heard that he
is seriously ill.”
“He is dead,” returned Nick simply.
Professor Tolo threw up both hands with a gesture of horror and sorrow.
As he did so, Nick Carter noted the powerful sinews of his arms, which
could be seen up his sleeves, moving like snakes under the yellow skin.
“Dead?” repeated Tolo. “Why, this is dreadful! How was it? Did you
hear? Wasn’t it very sudden?”
“Very,” returned Nick. “It was an affection of the heart.”
“Heart failure! Well, I always thought my poor friend has something of
the appearance of one who might be carried off in that way. Can I see him?”
“I am afraid not, professor. The coroner has his remains in charge. When
did you see Mr. Anderton last?”
“About a week ago. We met at the home of a friend of both of us. I had
never been in this house. You know, he only lately returned from China. He
had gathered up there a mass of valuable information for this government, I
understand.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Nick shortly.
“I have heard so. In fact, Mr. Anderton made no secret of it. He even told
me where he kept the data he had gathered, and offered to let me look it
over. Part of my reason for being in this neighborhood now was to see Mr.
Anderton and ask him to show me those records.”
“It is eleven o’clock at night,” the detective reminded him. “Isn’t it rather
late to come on such a mission?”
“It was the habit of Mr. Anderton to work at night, and I have often met
him away from home at a later hour than this. Students pay little attention to
the time of day or night when they are interested in any subject they may be
discussing. Did Mr. Anderton leave those papers where they could be seen, I
wonder. They deal only with scientific subjects, of course.”
“Did I not understand you to say that they were intended for the
government?” asked Nick. “It would hardly be proper for anybody else to
see them, I should say.”
“They were to be sent to the Smithsonian Institute, I believe. But I was
told by Mr. Anderton himself that there was nothing secret about them. He
intended the facts he had gathered to be given to the world at large. My
understanding was that they were to be published simultaneously with their
being sent to Washington.”
“You’re a liar,” muttered Chick, under his breath. “And you know it.”
Chick had been gazing steadily at the tall professor without being
observed, and the result of his inspection was that he did not like the look of
the stranger. It occurred to Chick, too, that Professor Tolo was too sure of
Nick Carter’s name after hearing it for the first time that night.
“I could not interfere with any of Mr. Anderton’s papers, professor,” said
Nick. “I am sorry that you have been disappointed. I should think the best
way for you to see these records you want would be to communicate with
Washington.”
The professor bowed and shrugged his shoulders, while a smile spread
over the yellow face beneath the large spectacles.
“Probably you are right, Mr. Carter. I thank you for the suggestion. Any
suggestion from so able a detective as everybody knows you to be cannot
but be valuable. I am right, am I not, in supposing that you are the Mr.
Nicholas Carter whom all the world knows? Your home is in Madison
Avenue, is it not?”
“Yes. That is where I live, and my name is Nicholas.”
Nick Carter said this in the cold tone in which he had conducted most of
his part of the conversation. It was easy to be seen that he was not favorably
impressed with the rather too smug Professor Tolo.
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Ruggins, who
announced that a man, who seemed much excited—a young man—wanted
to see Mr. Carter on an important matter.
“Which Mr. Carter?” demanded Nick.
“Both, ’e said. ’E asked if you were both ’ere, and when I told him yes, ’e
said that was what he wanted. So I came up and left ’im in the ’all till I could
find out whether you would see ’im.”
“It might be Patsy,” whispered Chick to his chief.
The same idea had occurred to Nick Carter, and he hurried out of the
room, followed by Chick and Ruggins, who closed the door behind him.
Instantly the Japanese professor became active. He carefully laid a heavy
chair on its side against the door. Then he ran across the room, to where a
tall bookcase stood against the wall in a corner, opposite the windows.
Professor Tolo had a remarkable knowledge of its arrangements.
Throwing open one of the large glass doors of the case, he hastily removed
four or five heavy books and placed them on a chair by the side of it. Then
he fumbled inside, feeling the back wall.
“Curses!” he growled. “Where is that button? The chart I have gives it
just about here. Let me see.”
He thrust his hand into the long black coat he wore, and felt in a pocket,
from which he drew forth a peculiar-looking little volume, whose covers
were made of some sort of shiny green substance, and which was held
together by a metal clasp.
“If they will only stay away long enough,” he muttered, while the
perspiration came out on his forehead in large drops. “The jade book will tell
me. But I’ve got to have time to look it up.”
He stepped back from the bookcase, so that he could see better by the
electric light just behind him, and opened the metal clasp of the green-
covered book with a click.
He was still turning the leaves—which seemed to be of parchment—
when he heard footsteps outside the door.
“Too late this time,” he mumbled. “But I’ll get it yet. That infernal Nick
Carter! Who would have thought he would mix himself up in this? And his
man, too! I’ll have a reckoning with both of them in due time. They’ll find
out that the crossed needles can reach anybody!”
Hurriedly he thrust the jade book, as he called it, back into his pocket,
and opening one of the big volumes he had taken from the bookcase, seemed
to be deeply absorbed in reading. In fact, he was so taken up with it that he
did not heed a racket at the door, when somebody outside pushed it against
the overturned chair.
It was not until Nick Carter had forced his way in, and Chick was picking
up the chair, that he turned, with a far-away expression, and smiled.
“Ah, Mr. Carter! Back again? I took the liberty of looking at this book
when I found myself alone. It is by my dear friend Anderton, written several
years ago. I have heard of it, but never happened to get hold of it before. Do
you know the work? It is called ‘The Orient and Orientalism.’ A splendid
treatment of a great subject. Masterly, in fact. I have often thought——”
“Why did you barricade the door?” demanded Nick, his eyes blazing. “I
don’t understand this, Professor Tolo.”
There was no chance to ignore the anger in the detective’s tones, and the
professor came to himself with a jerk. He shut the book and put it on its
shelf, while he looked from Nick Carter to Chick, and back again, in a most
edifying bewilderment.
“I don’t understand,” he faltered.
“You placed a chair against that door, didn’t you?” insisted the detective.
“Did I?” asked the professor vacantly. “I—I don’t know. I was thinking
about something else. Why, I—— Oh, yes, so I did. I remember. As I passed
a chair, I accidentally knocked it over. I intended to pick it up, of course. But
I saw the title of this volume in the bookcase——”
“Away across the room?” growled Chick.
The professor disregarded the query, and continued: “When I saw that
this book was here, I forgot everything else. All I saw was this work, that I
have longed for years, to hold in my hand, and I forgot all about the chair.
How I wish my dear Anderton were alive! He would lend it to me, I know.
As it is, I must try and get a copy somewhere else.”
“It would be advisable, I think,” said the detective, as he picked up the
other volumes and replaced them in the bookcase. “Is there anything more I
can do for you, professor? You will pardon me if I say that I am very busy,
and that it is getting late.”
“My dear Mr. Carter, I am sorry I have disturbed you. I apologize most
sincerely. Good night!”
He walked to the door, opened it, turned to bow and smile, and went
down the stairs.
Nick Carter waited till he heard the front door close after the professor,
and turned to Chick. But it was unnecessary for him to say anything. Chick
nodded comprehendingly, and leaped down the stairs three or four at a time.
Then he dashed along the hall and out to the street.
“I’ll go, too,” muttered Nick, as he also ran down the stairs and to the
outer air.
He had only just got off the stone steps and turned to the darkness on the
left, when he heard a muffled cry from somebody, followed by a scraping on
the sidewalk and the sound of something falling heavily.
“Chick!” he called.
There was no answer, and Nick Carter felt a strange premonition of evil.
He ran down the avenue for perhaps a hundred feet. Then, as he stumbled
over something soft that was lying across the sidewalk, he knew that his
premonition was not without foundation.
Chick was stretched out, unconscious. The detective turned the light of
his pocket flash upon him and gave vent to a shout of horror.
Sticking in the sleeve of his insensible assistant were two long needles,
crossed!
“Great heavens!” cried Nick. “Is it possible they’ve got Chick? Is no one
safe from these fiends?”
CHAPTER V.
IN AND OUT.
PATSY’S STILL-HUNT.
“I believe I’ve found him,” was the assertion with which Patsy Garvan
greeted Nick Carter, as he opened the door of his own library. “I’ve heard of
a chink with a sore mudhook and a listener branded from the top edge down
to the flap where you’d hang an earring, if you wore such a thing.”
Patsy jumped from behind Nick’s desk as the detective and Chick entered
the room, and it was obvious that the enthusiastic second assistant had been
about to write a report for his chief when he was interrupted.
He had thrown his hat on a chair, taken off his coat, rolled up his shirt
sleeves, and thrust the fingers of his left hand through his hair, as a
preparation for literary labor. Writing was one of the occupations that he
seldom took up by choice.
“Where is he, Patsy?” asked Nick, as he took the chair the young fellow
had vacated. “Can you produce him?”
“Sure I can,” replied Patsy. “That is, after we’ve laid out three or four
other chinks who’ll maybe stick in the way.”
“In Chinatown?” asked Chick.
“Naw!” was Patsy’s scornful reply. “That isn’t any place to look for a
chink who’s traveling on the ragged edge of the law. That’s where you’d
naturally look for him, and he wouldn’t be a chink if he didn’t have cunning
enough to be somewhere else. Gee! They’re a wise bunch, and don’t you
forget it. Why, I——”
“Where did you find him?” interrupted Nick. “Get down to business.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” returned Patsy, in a half-apologetic tone. “When I
went out of the house to-night, to look for this chink, I didn’t know where to
go. It wasn’t likely he’d be down near Mott or Doyers or Pell Street. Those
are Chinatown, of course, and there are more chinks to the square yard
around there than you’d find in square miles anywhere else in New York.”
“That’s so,” commented Chick.
“Of course, it’s so. Everybody knows that. Also, there was a possibility
that this crooked-eyed geezer might be there. But I didn’t think so. The
question was, where should I look? I know a lot of chink laundries in
Greater New York, and some more over in Jersey City. But it would take me
a week to look into them all, and I wouldn’t be sure of landing my man, at
that.”
“Great Scott! Why don’t you tell your yarn right off the bat, Patsy?”
begged Chick. “Where is this Chinaman?”
“I’m coming to that, Chick. Don’t be in such a hustle. When I’d walked
around for a while, thinking it over, I found myself back in front of our
house.”
“Yes?”
“I was on the other side of the avenue, in the shadow, when I saw two
men come out of this house.”
“You did?” shouted Chick. “Did you know them? Who were they? Why
didn’t you say so at first?”
“Of course, I knew them,” replied Patsy, to Chick’s first query. “They
were the chief and you.”
Chick snorted in disgust, while Nick Carter laughed, for he had suspected
what Patsy would say.
“What did you do then?” asked Nick.
“I followed your taxi in another one that I picked up on Thirty-fourth
Street, and I told him to keep yours in sight. It took me to Andrew
Anderton’s house.
“When I saw you and Chick go in, I paid off my taxi driver and told him
to beat it. Then I took up my post on the other side of the avenue and
watched. You see, you’d told me that it was the Yellow Tong that had laid
out Mr. Anderton, and I know the ways of chinks.”
“Go on.”
“You hadn’t been in there more than a minute before a chink came
strolling past the house, and he met another one at the corner. Then two more
came, and two more after that. They did not all stay in a bunch, but I saw
them all speak to each other.”
“What about the man with the scar that the chief wants?” put in Chick.
“I’m coming to that. The chinks were all watching the Anderton house in
a casual kind of way, but all at once I found two of them were missing. What
was funny about that was that they did not walk away. I saw the whole six in
front of the house at one moment, and the next, when I went to count them,
there were only four.”
“What had become of the other two?”
“I don’t know. But that wasn’t all of it. While I was wondering where
they had gone, I’m a chink myself if two more didn’t vanish the same way.”
“But they must have gone somewhere,” interposed Nick Carter
impatiently. “They weren’t swallowed up by the sidewalk.”
“That’s what they seemed to be,” insisted Patsy. “However, I wasn’t
going to stand anything like that without trying to call the bluff. So I walked
down the avenue for a block, under the trees, against the park fence, and
then crossed over. I came moseying along past Anderton’s, and there was my
two Mr. Chinks.”
“What were they doing?”
“Just coming slowly along, chattering to each other. I don’t know much
chink lingo, but I’m on to some of their words, and I heard one of them say
he’d had another fight. The other one asked him what about. Then came
something I couldn’t make out, but I caught the chink word for smoothing
iron.”
“Yes?”
“Just then they came into the light of an arc lamp, and I got a flash at the
ear of the one who said he’d been in a fight. I saw the white scar. At once I
piped off his right hand, and I saw that he had a finger tied up in a white rag.
That was enough. I kept right on past them, as if I wasn’t interested. But I
knew they were suspicious.”
“What did they do?”
“They waited till I’d got to the corner, where I turned around. I know that
part of the avenue pretty well, and I made for a vacant lot with boards built
up around it. There’s one loose board that I’d noticed when I was past there
last week, and it had struck me then that it would be handy if a fellow
happened to want to hide.”
“That’s right, Patsy!” commended Nick. “A good detective is always
careful to take note of everything. The most unimportant things—or things
that seem unimportant—may mean a great deal at some other time.”
“Exactly the way I’d figured it,” said Patsy, his freckled face flushing
with pleasure at his chief’s words. “And it just hit the spot to-night. I slipped
through the hole—just wide enough for me to squeeze through—and pulled
the board back into place.”
“It’s a good job you’re slim, Patsy,” smiled Nick.
“Yes. That’s been a help to me many times. Anyhow, as I was going to
say, I hadn’t more than got behind the boards, when the chinks came to the
corner and peeked around. There’s a big arc light there, you know, so that I
could see them quite plainly. They waited a minute, and then they walked
past the place where I was, and hustled around into Madison Avenue. I was
out of the hole and at the corner just as they boarded a street car.”
“Did you get on the same car?” asked Chick.
Patsy shook his head emphatically.
“Not me, Chick. I was too wise for that. But luck was with me, for
another car came along, close behind the other. There had been a blockade
downtown, and there was a string of five or six cars in a row.”
“Well?” put in Nick.
“There was nothing to it after that,” replied Patsy, grinning. “The chinks
got off at Hundred and Twenty-fifth and walked east. I was a block behind
them. They turned the corner when they got to Third Avenue, and then
another corner. I landed them at last. They went into a chink laundry that
was all dark. One of them knocked at the door. It was opened right away. I
guess there was a peephole. But after a while the door swung back and the
two went in.”
“And that was all?”
“Not quite. I hung around for a while, and, sure enough, four other
Chinamen came and got in. I couldn’t see whether they were the same four
I’d been watching on Fifth Avenue, and who got away from me, but it’s a
gold watch to a rusty nail that they were.”
“You know just where this laundry is, of course?” asked Nick.
“Gee! Yes. I can lead you right to it. But there’s a little more I haven’t
told you yet. I thought, if I hung around for a while, I might find out
something else. So I crossed the street, a little way below the laundry. Then I
came back and got into a doorway right opposite. I hadn’t been there more
than two minutes, when a taxicab came up and a tall man got out. I got only
a glimpse of him. He had a long black coat and soft hat, and he wore
spectacles with big black rims.”
Nick Carter betrayed the first excitement that had marked him since Patsy
began to tell his story.
“Was he a Chinaman or a Japanese, Patsy?” he asked eagerly.
“Search me. I couldn’t see in the dark.”
“Where did he go?”
“Into the laundry. The door opened as soon as the taxi stopped. There
wasn’t any waiting for him. It was all done up in a flash. He’d gone in and
the taxi was on its way in less time than you could take off your hat. I did
not stay any longer. I thought I’d seen enough. I jumped an elevated train
and came home. The name on the sign over the laundry was ‘Sun Jin.’ ”
“That will do,” said Nick Carter shortly. “We’ll all go to bed. In the
morning we’ll go after the man with the scar on his ear and the rag on his
finger.”
CHAPTER VII.