Li'l Rickey's Sinister Urges!

Li'l Rickey's Essential Reading!
Books My Parents Let Me Read


"There ain't no telling how our modern battleships are going to pull through in a fight," said Striker.

"Although England and America and France and Germany and Spain of the some of the other countries have 'em, they ain't been put into active use. I've been told the Chinese and Japanese used some of 'em during their late war, but them heathens don't count -- not alongside o' Anglo-Saxon blood; eh, Hobson?"

"I'll grant you that, every time, Striker, -- Anglo-Saxon blood every trip, against the world," cried the Englishman, heartily.

"Now you take it among ourselves," he went on, after a pause. "The Americans and English and Germans, and even the French, can get along together; but put a Spaniard or a Portuguese or an Italian, or one of that kind of fellows aboard and there's trouble right away -- I've seen it a hundred times."

"You might add the Norwegians to the off group," put in Larry.


"Are you hurt?" asked Tom as he leaned his motor-cycle against the fence and stood beside the negro.

"Hurt?" repeated the darky. "I'se killed, dat's what I is! Would yo' mind tellin' me if dat ar' mule am still alive?"

"Of course he is," answered Tom. "He isn't hurt a bit. But why can't you turn around and look for yourself?"

"No, sah! No, indeedy, sah!" replied the colored man. "Yo' doan't catch dis yeah nigger lookin' around!"

"What's your name?"

"My name? Why, I was christened Andrew Jackson Abraham Lincoln Sampson, but folks most ginnerally calls me Eradicate Sampson, an' some doan't eben go to dat length. Dey jest calls me Rad, fo' short."

"Eradicate," mused Tom. "That's a queer name, too. Why were you called that?"

"Well, yo' see I eradicates de dirt. I'm a cleaner an' a whitewasher by profession, an' somebody gib me dat name. Dey said it were fitten an' proper, an' I kept it eber sence. Yais, sah, I'se Eradicate Sampson, at yo' service. Yo' ain't got no chicken coops yo' wants cleaned out, has yo'? Or any stables or fences t' whitewash? I guarantees satisfaction."

"Well, I might find some work for you to do," replied the young inventor, thinking this would be as good a means as any of placating the darky.


"Turn 'em over to Li Chang. He's sailing back to China in the morning. Have 'em put on board his ship."

Snackley scratched his head for a moment. Evidently the idea caught his fancy.

"Not bad," he muttered. "I hadn't thought of Li Chang. Yes, he'd be able to look after them. He'd see to that they never returned," and he grinned grimly.

"He'd probably dump 'em overboard before they got to China at all," declared Redhead smugly.

"Li Chang doesn't like to feed passengers if they can be got rid of."

"So much the better. We won't be responsible."

"Leave it to Li Chang. The old villain would just like to have three white men in his power. He'll attend to them."


The Hardy Boys, while riding on a train, find themselves locked in their compartment.

"That porter must be either dead or asleep," Frank muttered, settling down to a prolonged ringing of the bell.

After what seemed an interminable length of time, they heard a shuffling of feet in the corridor. The sound of the steps ceased, and someone rapped at the door.

"Something foh you, gemmen?"

"Yes -- let us out of here!"

The porter tried the handle of the door. "By golly," he observed, "you done locked yo'selves in."

"We didn't lock ourselves in. Somebody locked us in. Haven't you got a key?"

"Jes' a minute."

They heard the porter shuffling away. After a while he returned with the sleeping car conductor, a key clicked in the lock, and then the door swung open.

"How on earth did that happen?" asked the conductor, mystified. He looked at the porter accusingly. "Did you lock these boys in there?"

"No, sah! No, sah!" protested the porter. "Ah didn't have nuffin to do with it, sah! Dey come on at Chicago wif an older man and Ah done showed 'em to de compa'tment and dat's all Ah knows about it."


Frantically, Nancy rattled the door knob.

"Oh, you is a caged lion, dis time," a rather unsteady voice remarked. "You is one o' dese tough robber boys, is you? Well, you won't do no mo' pilferin', 'cause I done got you surrounded."

"Let me out!" Nancy pleaded. "I'm not a robber."

The sound of a feminine voice coming from the closet nonplussed the man.

"Say, robber boy, is you imitatin' a lady's voice to th'o' me off de scent? If you is, it won't do no good 'cause I'm a natural-born, two-legged blood houn'."

Nancy thought of a way to convince him. She let go her longest and loudest feminine scream.

"Dat's enough! Hold yo' siren! I'll let yo' out. Dar ain't a man in de world could make a racket like dat! Dis way out, lady!"

Nancy stood face to face with Jeff Tucker, the colored caretaker employed by the Tophams. Nancy was glad to see him well and happy -- albeit a little too happy, for Jeff Tucker plainly had had a bit too much to drink.

Even in his condition of semi-inebriety Jeff seemed to realize that something was amiss.

"Say, white gu'l, you tell me wheah all dis heah fu'niture is at!"

"The most definite information I can give you," she said, "is that some robbers carted it away. If you had been here attending to your duty, it would never have happened."

" 'At's right! At's right! Blame me! I ain't s'posed to be no standin' ahmy -- I's just a plain culled man with a wife and seven chillun a-dependin' on me. No mom! I ain't havin' no truck wit' dem machine-gun boys!"

"Tell me where you were last night," Nancy suggested gently.

"Well, Miss, it was dis heah way: I was out in dah yard a-chorin' around last night and a-thinkin' how I wished I was some place whah I wasn't -- just any place, I didn't mind wheah. I was just all fed up bein' a caih-taker and takin' caih o' all dis truck from mornin' till night. It ain't such an excitin' life, Miss, and while I's done sowed all mah wild oats, I still sows a little rye now and den."


The Japanese officer showed his big buck teeth in a broad smile, but there was no mirth in his eyes. They were agate hard and glittering, like the eyes of a deadly cobra about to strike.

"So you will tell me no more, please, yes?" the Jap suddenly spoke in a voice that was like escaping steam. "You wish, please, that we show you ways we have to make stubborn American dogs talk?"

Red Randall felt his insides drop away, but he permitted not one of his inner emotions to show on his face, and kept his eyes fixed steadily on the little brown killer from Nippon.

"That's up to you," he said evenly. "But, whatever you do, it won't get you a thing. I've told you all I know."

Black murder flared up in the other's eyes. Randall saw his brown fingers tighten on the samurai sword in his hand. And the Yank air ace knew beyond all doubt that he was looking death in the face this time. Swift, sudden, and ruthless death. He steeled himself for the slashing blow, and breathed a silent fervent prayer for Jimmy Joyce. If it had to turn out this way, then...

The officer suddenly stiffened, as a voice cried out to him in his native tongue. An instant later a dirty uniformed Jap soldier rushed up, saluted, and poured a stream of sing-song sounds off his lips. The officer listened right through to the end, his flat face expressionless. Then when the soldier was finished he moved his eyes to Randall's face, and the Yank saw clearly the flaming fires of fiendish delight that lighted up their depths. He waited for the Jap rat to hiss something at him, but the officer spoke not a word.