Part 2

Meanwhile, Iris, showing first a curious little topknot, gradually projected her head, and then her whole body through the dividing doors. She stood in the opening greedily watching Plum Blossom. Half hidden behind her scanty little skirt, the small, fat face of Juji peered. Though no one so far had seen him, Juji, with the usual consciousness of two and a half years, was alternately showing and then hiding his face, being divided between a desire to stand joyfully on his head, or indulge in one of his famous roars. Iris, edging farther into the room, drew him after her. Mrs. Kurukawa perceived them. On the instant Juji sank to the floor, impeding the further progress of his sister by clinging to her legs.

“Oh, the darling little boy!” cried the little American girl, and ran to him to lift him up. Juji’s lip began to protrude ominously. Plum Blossom sprang into the breach.

“Juji! Juji!” she cried, in motherly Japanese, “don’t cry! Good boy! Give nice present to—l-lady!”

Whereupon Juji held out a grimy little hand, from which Plum Blossom extracted a crumpled paper package. She presented it to Mrs. Kurukawa with a smiling bow.

“Peanut!” said she, in English; “nize. For you!” She had remembered the words now.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, darling,” said Mrs. Kurukawa. Wishing to show her delight in the gift, she added:

“Come, we will all have some.”

She emptied the contents into her lap, then stared for a moment. Gradually her astonishment changed to laughter.

The package contained only shells. Juji had eaten the peanuts.

Plum Blossom and Iris felt completely disgraced. Iris, from the shelter of her father’s arms, whither she had gone, now flew towards the wicked Juji.

“Oh, the bad boy!” she cried.

Juji’s lip broke. One of his terrific roars ensued. He was borne from the room by the humiliated little girls.

“And now,” said Mr. Kurukawa, rubbing his hands and speaking in a loud voice: “Where are my sons? Taro!” he called.

Promptly the boy answered. He came literally tumbling into the hall, which, with the panels pushed aside, had now become a large room.

Taro’s eyes evaded his father. For some time he had been watching intently the American boy from his peep-hole in the paper shoji. As he appeared at the call of his father, his eyes were still riveted upon his hated rival. Suddenly he made a catlike spring in the boy’s direction and landed sprawling on Billy’s chest. For the astonished Billy, tripped unawares, was lying on his back. A great flame of indignation, and yet almost unwilling admiration, stirred within the heart of the prize fighter of a certain Chicago school.

Could it be possible that this little mite of a Jap was sitting victoriously on his chest? He growled and moved a bit, but Taro, wildly trying to keep in mind the few jiu-jitsu tricks he had lately learned, touched the boy’s arm in a sensitive place.

Billy rose like a lion shaking off a troublesome cub. As Taro caught him about the calf of his leg, Billy reached down and took the little Japanese boy by the waist and coolly tucked him under his arm; then he marched up and down, singing at the top of his voice:

“Yankee Doodle came to town, Riding on a pony— Took a little Jappy Jap Who was a bit too funny!”

Here it may be well to explain that Billy, besides being the prize fighter of his school, was also the class poet.

Mrs. Kurukawa rescued the little “Jappy Jap” from her big son’s hands, and gave the latter a reproving look, saying:

“Oh, Billy, is that the way to treat your little brother?”

“Well, mother,” protested Billy, “he did get funny, now didn’t he, father?” He appealed to Mr. Kurukawa, who was patting the ruffled head of the discomfited and conquered jiu-jitsu student.

Taro’s expression had undergone a change. In his little black eyes a gleam of respect for Billy might have been seen. Suddenly he nodded his head significantly, and made a motion of his hand towards the garden, signifying in boy language the invitation:

“Come outside. I’ll show you some things.”

Out they wandered together, excellent friends at once.

“Sa-ay,” said Taro, pausing on the brink of his own private garden brook, “you—you,” he touched Billy with a stiff little finger—“_you_—Gozo!”

Billy was at a loss to understand what “say—you—Gozo!” could mean, but he liked the look on Taro’s face, so grinned and said: “Me—Gozo.” Taro nodded. He had paid Billy the highest compliment in his power, likening him to the hero of the Kurukawa family, the great, elder brother Gozo.

IV

MEANWHILE, in the house, Mr. Kurukawa was inquiring urgently for Gozo. Where was he? Why was he not the first to greet his parents? The grandparents would not respond to his inquiries, but remained silent, looking very dejected and miserable. Their aspect alarmed Mr. Kurukawa, who now clapped his hands loudly. Several servants came running into the room in answer to his summons. Immediately the master questioned them:

“Where is my son Gozo?”

But all the response he received from the servants was a profound silence, broken by that hissing, sighing sound peculiar to the Japanese when moved, a drawing in of the breath through the teeth. Mr. Kurukawa recognized a boy who had been his own body-servant, and to him he strode, seizing the latter by the shoulder of his kimono. But the boy slipped from his hand to the ground and put his head at his master’s feet. There, with his face hidden, he answered the questions put to him.

“Speak, my boy, where is Gozo?”

“O Excellency, young master—sir—” he broke off and began to cry, beating his head as he did so on the floor. Mr. Kurukawa raised him forcibly to his feet.

“What is it, Ido? Has anything happened to our Gozo?”

He could hardly bring the words out. The bare thought that misfortune had befallen his eldest son horrified him.

Ido dried his face on his sleeve, and from his new hiding-place spoke:

“Young master, sir, gone away, O Excellency!”

Mr. Kurukawa’s grasp on the boy’s shoulder relaxed. He stepped back and stood a moment silent, his hand against his forehead.

“What is it, Kiyo? What is it?” asked his wife, going to him and throwing an arm about him.

The color came back into her husband’s face. He laughed a bit weakly.

“I thought it possible that my boy was—”

She held his hand tightly, her eyes full of tears.

“Oh, I understand. I do,” she said. “But where is he?”

Her husband stepped back to the spot where Ido had been. Then he saw that in almost complete silence the servants, including Ido, had slipped from the room.

He fancied he heard the slight movement of their feet on the padded floor beyond the shoji. Impetuously and insistently he clapped his hands again, and silently they answered his summons. Nearly all the servants of the Kurukawa family had been in their service for years, some of them having served the grandparents. Their averted faces alarmed Mr. Kurukawa. This time he did not question them.

“Send Plum Blossom-san to me at once,” he said.

The little girl was brought in. With her Iris and the consoled Juji came.

The father took the eldest girl by the hand; kneeling, he spoke to her almost pleadingly.

“Tell father all about Gozo,” he said.

Plum Blossom grew very red and looked towards Mrs. Kurukawa. Then she spoke low in Japanese, her hand half pointing in the direction of her step-mother.

“She—she—send away our Gozo,” she said.

At the mention of Gozo’s name Juji paused in his eating of a juicy persimmon to give signs of a renewal of his late tear-storm. Little Iris drew him comfortingly into her arms, soothing him in this wise:

“There, there, Juji, don’t cry! Gozo is coming back some day. Oh, you should laugh, Juji, because our Gozo is so brave and fine. Think of it! He is a soldier of the beloved Ten-shi-sama!”

“Soldier!” cried Mr. Kurukawa, and leaped to his feet. “My boy a soldier!” he cried, almost staggering forward.

“Yes, father,” said Plum Blossom. “Gozo is a _g-great_ soldier now!”

Mr. Kurukawa went towards the grandparents.

“What does this mean? He was left in your charge. He is only a child—a mere boy of eighteen. How could he enlist at such an age?”

“He passed for older,” said the grandmother, slowly. “We did everything to prevent his going—but he has gone.”

“Ah, I see—I understand,” said Mr. Kurukawa. For a moment his face was lighted as a look of pride swept across it. “The boy was inspired. He could not wait to come of age. He wanted to give his young life for his country, his Emperor. I am proud of him. Where is he now?”

“The last time we heard from him he was at Port Arthur. That was—two months ago.”

“Ah-h! Condescend to give me his letter—”

The grandmother slowly and reluctantly took it from her sleeve and handed it to the father. Mr. Kurukawa’s eager fingers shook as he unfolded the letter, a long, narrow sheet, covered with the bold and characteristic writing up and down the pages of his son Gozo. As he perused it his face grew darkly red. The sheet rustled in his hands. When he had finished he crushed it, and stood for a moment in silence, anger and sorrow combating within him.

“So,” he finally spoke, “it was not honorable loyalty to the Mikado which inspired him, but a mean emotion—hatred of one he does not even know. I expected better of my son.”

He let the crumpled letter fall from his hand. Stooping, the grandmother picked it up, to place it tenderly in her sleeve. She spoke with a touch of reproach in her voice:

“Kurukawa Kiyskichi,” she said, “never before have I heard your lips speak bitterly of your eldest son. Be not inspired to feel anger towards him.” She glanced at Mrs. Kurukawa as though she were the one at fault. “Gozo is a good boy, has always been so. It was not hatred, as you say, which prompted him to leave his own. Call it rather a boy’s feeling of resentment, that the place of the one he had loved dearly—his mother—should so soon be filled—and by a bar—”

She did not finish the word. Her son-in-law stopped her with a stern gesture.

“Say no more, honorable mother-in-law. It is enough that my son has, without so much as referring to me in the matter, left my house. In his letter he speaks slanderously of one who is good, who was ready to love him as her very son. She is my wife just as much as Gozo’s mother was. She is not an intruder in her husband’s house, and my son has no right to question her place here. Of his own free will he has left his father’s house. Very well, he shall never return to—”

“What does it all mean?” broke in his wife with agitation. “Tell me what you are saying, Kiyo. Where is Gozo?”

“_I_ will tell unto you,” spoke the grandmother, going towards her. “Better, madame, that you should know. I say not English well, but—”

“I understand you.”

“Gozo—our boy—go way—mek soldier—fight Lussians. He angry account _you_—therefore he be soldier—”

“Account—_me_! Why, I don’t understand—that is—Yes—I think I do understand. He was opposed to his father’s marriage?”

“He love his _mother_,” said the old woman, and then began to tremble, for Mrs. Kurukawa had hidden her face in her hands. The grandmother spoke uncertainly.

“Pray egscuse—I sawry—ve’y sawry. Gozo—Gozo—_bad_.” She brought the word out as if it hurt her to admit this much of her best-loved grandchild.

“No, no,” said Mrs. Kurukawa, softly. “He is not bad. I understand him. Why, it was only natural.” She moved appealingly towards her husband. “Don’t you remember, Kiyo, I feared this—that the children might not _want_ me.”

“And I told you,” said he, quickly, “that it was not my children you were marrying, but myself.”

“You are angry with that boy,” she cried.

“Angry! I will never forgive him!”

“Oh, you don’t mean that.”

“We will not talk of it any longer,” said her husband, turning away.

The boy had written:

“The barbarian female who has taken my mother’s place is a witch—a fox-woman—a devil! Otherwise how could she have worked upon my father’s mind so soon to forget our mother? I could not remain at home and face such a woman. Better that I should go. Here, at least, my bitter thoughts can do no injury. How I long to be exposed to great danger! Maybe, if I die, my father will be sorry!”

Such unfilial, rebellious words were unheard of from a Japanese son. Left to the care of his doting old grandparents, Mr. Kurukawa saw clearly how much Gozo had needed the guiding hand of a father.

V

MARION sat on a gigantic moss-grown rock, looking with somewhat wistful eyes at the children in the family pond. She envied them their intense enjoyment. The family pond, it should be explained, was also the family bath-tub. It was a great pool of water, set in the heart of the garden, a beautiful and alluring spot for the children. All about it the blossoming trees bent their heads as if to look at their own reflected images in the mirror of the water. The Kurukawas had added to its natural beauty by placing along its banks huge rocks of strange formation, very charming to look at, and comfortable to sit upon.

Out over the water a sort of pleasure-booth was built, over which the wistaria vines clambered and bloomed in wild profusion. This was the dolls’ house of the little Japanese girls. In the water were two diminutive sampans and also a raft, the property of Taro, inherited from Gozo.

The pond was a natural one. It might have been termed a small lake, but the family had always referred to it as “the pond,” and even had called it the “bath,” for that was its chief use. The little Kurukawas dipped into it sometimes three times a day in the summer. They had almost literally spent their lives in it. Even three-year-old Juji would throw his fat little hands over his head, and dive into the water, swimming as naturally as a wild duck.

Now as Marion watched the shining brown bodies of her step-brothers and sisters her eyes unconsciously filled with tears. Why could not she throw aside her white starched clothes and join them in their pleasures? It was not that her mother would not permit her; but Marion’s sensitive soul had been deeply wounded by the manner of her step-sisters when first she had put on a kimono, and had gone, with innocent friendliness, to join them. At first the little girls had regarded her with amazement. Summer, who happened to be with them, hid her face behind her fan, where she giggled and tittered in the most provoking way imaginable. Plum Blossom asked, bluntly:

“Wha’s thad? Dress?”

“My kimono,” faltered Marion.

“Where you git?”

“Mother bought it at a Japanese store in Chicago.”

Plum Blossom shook her head disapprovingly, while Iris, in imitation of Summer, began to titter also.

“Thas nod Japanese,” said Plum Blossom, severely.

Marion had moved proudly and silently away.

“Mother,” she cried, running into her room, with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes, “give me back my own clothes. Oh, I never, never, never want to wear these horrid things again,” she sobbed in her mother’s lap.

And now, a week later, Marion still wore her white starched gown of piqué, and sat there on the rock, quite alone; for Billy was one of the happy bathers in the shining spring-pond. It was against him she felt most bitter. He was her own, own brother; yet there he was quite at home with the enemy, even sometimes pushing the boat which held that “nasty Miss Summer,” who was at the root of all her trouble. She felt sure she could have been happy with Plum Blossom and Iris had not Summer, in some way, influenced them against her. And as for dear, little, fat Juji, why, she just loved him!—even if he did scream every time she came near him and ran from her as fast as his little, fat, frightened legs could carry him. Summer had told him Marion was a fox-girl, who would bite him if she caught him. At first Juji had regarded this announcement with doubt. Full of confidence because of the winning, smiling face of Marion, he had even timorously gone into her arms. Lo and behold, she had indeed attempted to “bite” him, for such the kiss had seemed to Juji, who had never been kissed in all his life. After that, Juji had kept his distance from the “yellow-haired fox-girl.”

There was a sudden squeal of delight from the pond. Something flashed in the sun a moment. Then over went the sampan in which the three little Japanese girls were seated. Billy had tipped it over, immersing the three girls, who came up shaking their little black heads, and swam towards the raft, upon which they clambered.

Leading from the booth to the shore was a little arched bridge, part, indeed, of the pleasure-booth. Suspended between a pole on shore and another half-way out in the water, was a long, delightful bamboo rest. The gymnastic Taro would climb out on this pole as easily as a kitten; he would twist and twirl about, and end with his head hanging over the water and his feet clinging to the pole. Each time he performed these tricks Billy was filled with an intense ambition to transport his step-brother to America, to exhibit him to his old school-mates.

Now the rock on which Marion sat was close to the shore end of the bamboo pole, and near to the little arbor. As she sat there in sad dejection, Taro softly clambered up from the water end of the bamboo pole and crawled along the ridge until he stood over the head of the unconscious girl. His body swayed, until he rested in his favorite position and hung by his feet from the pole. One quick, sharp push, and the next moment the little girl on the rock was plunged head-foremost into the water below. Taro had revenged the upsetting of his sisters from the boat by Billy. The latter went suddenly white to his lips and began swimming frantically in the direction of his sister.

One fleeting glimpse of the boy’s horrified face Taro had; then he understood. Marion could not swim!

On the instant he threw up his arms and dived. Never had Billy seen anything so quick as that lightning dive and swift return of Taro. He supported his step-sister while he swam with her to the shore. She had been hardly a minute in the water; but she was frightened. Her little hands and face were blue, her teeth were chattering, and she was shivering and crying hysterically, although it was sultry and warm. The first words she spoke were:

“Billy—I—I’m all right. Pl-please don’t fight Taro about it,” for Billy was pugnaciously regarding his step-brother.

The other children were now all about her, Plum Blossom’s motherly little face looking very concerned. The water was dripping from the kimonos of the three Japanese girls. As they looked at the drenched Marion a kindred feeling must have possessed them simultaneously, for suddenly they all laughed outright in unison, Marion joining with them. She was almost glad of the adventure now, as she said:

“If I had on a kimono—I’d—I’d go into the water with you.”

“You want keemono?” inquired Taro, eagerly.

“Yes,” she nodded.

He brought her his own.

She laughed with delight, and Iris and Plum Blossom clapped their hands. What fun to see the yellow-haired one arrayed in a boy’s kimono! But Marion had disappeared with the garment. A few minutes later she returned clad in it, to the uproarious delight of every one.

Taro himself wore with great pride one of Billy’s bathing-suits.

As the sampan moved down the surface of the tiny lake, Marion confided to Plum Blossom, who held one of her hands, while Iris held the other:

“I wanted so much to go into the water, but—I thought you didn’t want me. Oh, dear, I feel so _comfy_ in this dear old loose thing,” she added.

“Tha’s nize,” said Plum Blossom.

“Vaery nize,” agreed Iris.

Summer, sitting in the stern of the boat, opened her paper parasol. The sight of it sent the little girls into another peal of laughter. When Billy upset the boat the parasol had shared the fate of its owner as it was thrust into her obi in front. The effect of its bath was ludicrously apparent. Being of paper, it split in several places as she opened it. Now as she held it loftily above her head, water of several shades of color rolled from it to splash upon its haughty owner, for just at this moment Summer was endeavoring to make an impression upon the sisters. She had succeeded beyond her expectations. The boat rocked with the wild gale of their mirth.

VI

IT was the day after Marion’s accident that the baby was lost, or, rather, “shtolen,” as the nurse-maid put it.

Norah had taken it in its carriage a short distance from the house. In Chicago it had been her daily duty to push the baby up and down the street on which they lived. The Kurukawas’ garden was of a fair size, but its dimensions were limited for Norah’s purpose. Moreover, the girl was intensely homesick “for the soight of the face of a foine cop!”

When she had gone to America, one of the first things she noticed was that all, or nearly all, the policemen were Irish. The idea occurred to her that it might be the same in Japan. And so, unmindful of the instructions of her mistress not to leave the vicinity of the house, Norah sallied forth, and wandered on until she came to the main street of the little town. The news of the presence in the street of a most extraordinary looking foreign devil, a giant in size, pushing an outlandish jinrikisha with a pale-faced, yellow-hair baby in it, spread like wildfire through the surrounding streets. Soon a small mob of children and a number of curious men and women were following and surrounding Norah. Some of them ran ahead of her, impeding the progress of the baby-carriage. At first Norah regarded them with inherent good-humor, but after a time she became embarrassed and annoyed. A little girl of about seven years had actually climbed over the front of the carriage, and there she perched, regarding the baby with great curiosity.

Norah stopped. One hand sought her plump hip, and the other doubled to a fist, which she shook.

“Now, you young spalpeen,” said she, “you climb down, or I’ll put you down none too gently. Off with you, you haythen imp!”

The little girl regarded her unblinkingly, but the surrounding crowd began to jabber excitedly. Norah turned upon them.

“Shure, it’s a fine lot of haythens you be! wid nothing better to consarn yersilves wid than the business of others. Off wid you all, or Oi’ll make short worruk of the boonch of yez.”

A threatening movement cleared a space about her. Her fighting blood was up. She began to lay about her in every direction, spanking a little boy on her right, pushing along by the ear another, and cuffing a giggling maiden of fifteen summers, whose tittering had for some time irritated her. But in attacking the children following her, Norah made a mistake. The “haythens,” merely curious at first, now became aggressive. In a few minutes there was a concerted rush in the direction of the Irish girl. She took fright at this, and at the top of her voice shrieked:

“Police! Police! Murdher! Hilp!”

Her cry had immediate effect. Some one came running towards her. The crowd fell back, and indeed dispersed almost in silence at the approach of the little, uniformed figure which descended upon them. He made his way straight to Norah with wonder. She watched the magic effect of his coming upon the crowd, and as he came up to her she spoke admiringly:

“Shure it’s the Mikado himself yer afther being, I should think, from the grand way you’re threated.”

He touched her arm with a hand of authority.

“I have the honor to arrest you,” said he, in distinct English.