Daily Northwestern
Oshkosh, Wisconsin, U.S.A.
5 October 1888

London, Oct. 5.
The chief of the metropolitan police has decided to employ bloodhounds in his efforts to discover the perpetrator of the White Chapel murders. The police place confidence in the story of the seaman who states that August last he met a Malay cook, named Alask, and that Alask told him he had been robbed of all he had by a woman of the town; and threatened unless he found the woman and recovered the property he would kill and mutilate every White Chapel woman he met. The police are searching everywhere for the Malay.

One of the latest theories advanced by those who have made study of the murders is as follows: "A close study of the crimes, and of the life of the class of depraved women he slays so terribly, leads me to a few conclusions. Let it be remembered that since the second murder the fallen women of White Chapel are walking the streets in fear of their lives. Most of them now carry police whistles. They are ready to give the alarm on the first show of deadly intention. It is a fact that since the second murder they have kept shy of strangers; of big, burly men. But in their horrible degradation and destitute condition they must live. The murderer always operates after midnight. He feigns drunkenness. He sings and laughs in an imbecile way. He is apparently just able to steer himself from lamp post to lamp post. The police make way for him. "E's appy," one mutters. "E's full as a tick," another grumbles. Presently he sees he is followed. A wretched woman has marked him for her prey. He lurches forward into darker and darker streets. She catches up to him now. She calls him "deary". Won't he give her the price of a drink.

The "drunk" laughs, fumbles in his pocket. She sees the gleam of silver. "No; go 'way," he mutters. He lurches on and at last he fetches up helpless in a dark alleyway, a dark arch, a little square or stumbles into a back yard through an open hallway. Now she will have the price of a week's debauch for a minute's work. She turns to see that she is quite alone with him. She is. Before she can turn again there is an iron hand across her mouth, a hard knee in her back and a sharp knife across her throat. The rest is horror upon horror. The "knifer" has not a drop of blood upon him. He goes forth staggering and silent - the sure passport among the police. He does not go very far, either, or I am much mistaken. Of his days I can conjecture nothing save that he works in some everyday business. He must have a maniac's secretiveness as well as a maniac purpose, for he cannot get out of the echo of his crimes."