Part 6

“Well,” said Billy, crossly, “I’m tired of rice-cakes and sweet things. I want something else. Do you keep chop-suey?” It was a dish he liked very much, having become acquainted with it through a Chinese cook lately employed. The little maid thought she might bring something resembling chop-suey. So she sped away to fill the orders. Soon she was back, followed by another maid carrying the luncheon on black lacquer trays. The omelets ordered by Mrs. Kurukawa were served in the most attractive shapes. Each omelet was formed in a different pattern, as a chrysanthemum, a twig of pine-tree, a plum blossom.

“They’re too pretty to eat,” said Marion, looking with delight at the flower form before her.

Billy’s chop-suey was a chicken-stew, to which had been added mushrooms. As they ate the meal the little waitress brought her samisen, and, running her fingers lightly across it, she began to first play and then to sing:

“Oh, the soldiers march away! See them march away. The maids at home must stay, Hush! do not weep, but pray, Oh, the soldiers march away!

“Oh, how long now will they stay? No one truth can say. When soldiers march away, List! often ’tis for aye, Oh, the soldiers march away!”

Her queer little staccato voice fell mournfully at the end, and the samisen concluded her song in its lower keys.

Plum Blossom tried to explain to them what it was she sang, though both Billy and Marion now partially understood the language.

“The soldiers marching way, naever, naever come bag. All maidens must not cry, bud pray for them.”

She threw a reproachful look at Marion, who had wept so often.

“Tell her to sing something happy,” said Billy.

Mrs. Kurukawa addressed the girl, as she spoke Japanese with more than usual fluency.

“Whose songs do you sing?”

“My own, honored one.”

“You make up your own songs?”

“Yes, gracious lady.”

“The music, too?”

“Yes, augustness. By profession I am a geisha, but since the war our business is so poor we are obliged to become tea-waitresses also.”

“And are geishas also poetesses and musicians?”

“Yes, gracious one. Shall I write my honorably foolish poetry for you, and will you condescend to accept it?”

“I should be delighted. I should keep it always. But sing to us again.”

She sang shrilly, to the high notes of her samisen:

“Look! the moon is peeping, Little maid, take care! Lovers trysts are keeping, Little maid, take care!

“Lovers oft are weeping, Little maid, take care! When the moon is peeping, Little maid, take care!

“Who is this comes creeping? Little maid, take care! Hah! the moon still peeping, Little maid, take care!

“Oh, the heart upleaping! Little maid, take care! Lovers?—moon a-peeping! No! It’s brother there! Little maid, take care!”

Still squatting on her heels, the little geisha-girl wrote her poems in Japanese characters for the American woman. Then bowing very deeply she presented them to her, saying sweetly:

“Two sen, highness, one sen for each poem.”

Mrs. Kurukawa paid the price, and laughed as she did so.

XIX

THE tea-house was only a short distance from the shops, and the runners, rested and refreshed by sake, drew them swiftly into the heart of the town. Soon they were in a shop kept by a tiny Japanese, very old and very wrinkled, who begged, as he bowed deeply, that they would help themselves to all they saw in his most insignificant shop. The magnificence of this offer, made in intelligible English, quite delighted Billy. He began to have visions of what he would do with his twenty dollars since this Japanese was so polite that he was actually offering to _give_ them the articles. Soon he was undeceived. In a short time the unwary children were enmeshed in the wily bargaining web of the shrewd small merchant of Tokio.

Billy saw a flag which warmed his heart. It was a large Japanese flag, with the sun solidly embroidered in its centre. What a gift to send to his father! In imagination he saw the flag torn and cut by bullets. He priced it. It was ten dollars. The old man insinuated that he might take eight dollars for it. Billy shook his head, swallowing deep disappointment. The old man would let it go for five dollars. No? Possibly the young augustness was poor? Billy flushed proudly and dipped into his sleeve for his money. Then he said, sturdily: “I’ll give you a dollar for it.”

The old man shrugged, protested, but finally rolled up the flag tenderly and gratefully took the dollar in exchange.

“My goodness!” said Billy, “are there Jews in Japan?”

“Be careful, Billy,” his mother warned.

She herself, however, was feeling strangely drawn towards a certain padded silk dressing sack, heavily embroidered with chrysanthemums of the color most admired by her husband. Unlike Billy, she did not pause to bargain. Her husband had warned her: “The Japanese shop-keeper will take what he can get. Set your price and give no more.”

“I’ll give you five dollars for that,” said she. Then she felt ashamed of herself when he, with a sad shake of his head, began wrapping it up for her.

The little girls’ purchases were trifling but pretty. Their sleeves, being full of parcels, hung down on either side like heavy bags. Billy’s and Taro’s purchases, however, were so large that there was some question how they were to be carried.

Three swords, an old American rifle, and a water-pistol were among Taro’s acquisitions. Billy had his large flag, a soldier’s uniform, a miniature cannon, and a folio of bright pictures describing war. At the last moment his conscience smote him. Neither he nor Taro had bought presents for the girls. Both had been too absorbed in buying things for boys. They put their heads together and whispered now. Ten cents remained to each. Taro bought toothpicks, cheapest facepowder, nail-polish, and a back-scratcher, each article costing three cents. He grudgingly gave up one of the articles he had already, and instead purchased for the mother a pot of the rosiest paint.

Billy, too, begrudged the money necessary to spend on the girls, so he was determined not to part with any of his own things. His gifts cost in the neighborhood of a cent or two cents each. For Marion he bought one paper handkerchief, for Plum Blossom a brass ring, for Iris a hat-pin, for Juji a bit of candy, and for Norah tooth-blacking. This, he thought, she could utilize for her shoes. As the presents looked very bright and gaudy, Billy and Taro felt that they had done their duty, and that the girls ought to be duly grateful.

On the way home a shrill voice shouting in the street was recognized by the sharp-eared Taro.

“The treasure-ship!” he cried, excitedly.

Around the corner came a most wonderful cart piled high with brightly colored toys and things dear to the heart of a child. Following the cart was a veritable procession of little children. Loudly the vendor shouted:

“Otakara! Otakara!”

Ambitious to imitate the commercial foreigner, the treasure-vendor had decided to play this little trick on his fellows. He would not wait till January 2d, but would appear on the street with his treasure-cart thus early in the season when people had not yet spent all their money.

The entreaty in the faces of the children Mrs. Kurukawa could not resist. Soon some of the bright things of the treasure-cart were transferred to the jinrikishas.

“But, mind you, children,” she said, as they turned gleefully homeward, “I’m going to put everything away until Christmas.”

XX

THE following day Mrs. Kurukawa yielded to the coaxing of the children and took them to hear one of the famous story-tellers of Tokio. There is not a child, I believe, of any nationality, who does not love a “story.” In Japan story-telling is an actual profession, possessing its own halls and houses of entertainment. But the audience is not made up of children. People of all ages attend, though the story-teller is not as popular to-day as he once was. With eagerness, then, the little Kurukawa children, after hanging their clogs among others, entered the hall. They were led into a square little booth or box. In a few minutes a waitress from an adjoining tea-house sold them refreshments.

The hall was dimly lighted by candles. As black cloths were draped about the stage the place had a gloomy appearance. Presently the story-teller entered and seated himself on the raised dais. So horrible and weird was his aspect that the little girls involuntarily clung to one another’s hands and looked at their mother apprehensively. His face and bald head were chalky white. Seen from the distance of their box his eyes were black chasms set into his white face. He appeared to have enormous teeth which protruded as long fangs beyond his lips. As he seated himself on the dais all the candles in the hall went out, seemingly of their own accord. Only those upon the stage remained burning.

“Oh,” said Marion, grasping Taro’s hand in the darkness, “he looks like some horrible ghost!”

“Sh!” whispered the little Japanese boy. “He’s going to tell a ghost-story.”

“I thought,” broke in Billy, “they told war-stories.”

“Sh! I’ll tell you what he says, if you be quiet.”

“I don’t want to hear,” said Marion, covering her ears with her hands, for at that moment the deep and hollow voice of the story-teller fell upon the hushed audience. He was a pantomimist as well as a story-teller. As both Billy and Marion understood some Japanese he made his story clear even to them. As he proceeded with his tale the candles on the stage gradually flickered out, until he was in darkness, save for a weird yellow glow surrounding him. Then it was that the thrilled audience thought saw strange white shapes fluttering about him, first hovering over and covering the speaker, then wandering about the stage.

The tale he told was an old one known to all Japanese. It was the story of the faithless husband who swore to his young and dying wife that he would never marry again. Scarcely, however, had she been cold in her grave before he married a young and beautiful girl. For many nights the bride was visited by a wraith with warning to leave her husband. She would wake screaming with fright, but always her husband, lying there beside her, would reassure her. Finally the ghost set a day for the bride’s departure, telling her that if she did not go on that day a terrible fate would befall her. That night the husband set a guard of twelve watchmen in their chamber. When the ghostly visitor entered the room of armed men they fell dead at the feet of the spirit as it crossed the threshold and went straight to the bed where the frightened bride cowered close against her sleeping lord, for although he had sworn to keep the watch with the guards he had yielded to irresistible slumber. The following morning, waking early, he stretched his arms out to enfold his bride. The form he held was stiff and cold. Something wet and slimy touched him. As he put out a hand to caress her hair he saw the thing beside him, a trunk from which the head had been torn away.

As the story-teller finished the recital there was a long interval of absolute silence in the hall. Then out of the darkness of the stage a white figure bore upon the vision. In the weird light that suddenly enwrapped the spectre the audience saw that it held aloft the head of a woman, the long, black hair floating away from the deathly face as though a wind were blowing through the hall.

A stir, a shiver seemed to pass at once over the whole audience. Then—almost an unknown thing in Japan—a child’s shrill voice startled the silence. Mrs. Kurukawa reached out to catch Marion in her arms; the little girl had become almost paralyzed with fear. A moment later the candles were lighted. People looked at one another in the new light—everywhere faces were pale and lined with fear.

“Oh, let’s go home,” pleaded Marion, at which the mother arose.

“No, no!” protested Taro. “He’ll tell war-tales now. _We_ want to stay.”

“Of course we do,” cried Billy. “That old cry-baby always spoils our fun.”

A smiling waitress with candy beans assured them that the lights would not be turned out again, and so Marion leaned against her mother resignedly.

“_I_ wasn’t the only one afraid,” she said, plaintively. “All of you were, even mother, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was,” she answered, truthfully. “I didn’t know I could feel quite so shivery over a mere ghost-story.”

“Don’t they ever tell pretty fairy-stories?” asked Marion.

“No,” said Taro, disgustedly. “They would have no business then.”

“Story-tellers’ halls,” said Billy, didactically, “aren’t for girls. Girls haven’t the sense to enjoy tragedy.”

They remained until five o’clock, listening to exaggerated accounts of the war. Graphic details were recounted of the battles. Many Japanese fed their imaginations at the story-teller’s table after the hunger left by mere official accounts published in the newspapers.

XXI

THREE more days the little party remained in Tokio. Then, tired out, happy, and loaded down with purchases, they returned to their home. There they found the long-looked-for letter from the soldier. It had come during their absence.

He had not written sooner because the soldiers had been forbidden to write to their families during a certain period of operations. He hoped that his letter would reach them in time to make their Christmas and New Year season happy. His letter ran:

“As I write, I am a happy man, despite the many things of which I am deprived. First, I am a servant in a glorious cause. Who could choose a nobler way to die? It is with cheerfulness that we soldiers bear the enforced hardships. Indeed, we scarcely feel them, so buoyed up are we by our cause. But I have still another reason for happiness at this time. I am with my boy Gozo at last, and if the fates but permit, we shall never separate again. I have told him about you all, and his letter to you will reach you with my own. The experiences he has been through since leaving his father’s home have made a man of him. And it is with a man’s deep understanding that he asks your pardon. But he speaks for himself.

“I cannot send you gifts this year, my children and my wife, but my prayers and blessings are for you always. Tell Billy I cannot send him the Russian buttons for which he asks. I think he would understand if he were here. Let him imagine the kind of man who would cut away a trifling souvenir from the body of a dead enemy. Tell the boys also that I do not doubt their zeal to serve Japan, but that it is not likely we shall need their services. Their French friend had better revise his thoughts.

“I read many times the letters from my little girls. Tell Plum Blossom so well have I kissed the spot she indicated in her letter that there is a little hole there now. Tell my little Yankee girl, too, that not only have I lent her Bible to Gozo, but it is the common property of the little band of Christians in our regiment. There are fifteen of us in all. It will give Marion pleasure to know that her gift to me passes from hand to hand, and fifteen loyal soldiers of Ten-shi-sama unconsciously bless her each day they read.

“Take care of my house for me, my children, and my wife. Encourage my boys in thoughts of patriotism. Remember that always I think of you, and that is happiness enough.”

The letter from Gozo was brief, but his step-mother read it greedily. It was written in the English language.

“ESTEEMED MADAME, AND MOTHER-BY-LAW,—I know not to express myself good in your language. How I can find words begging your pardon? Put my rudeness to you down to my ignorance. I am more old to-day and through my honored father’s words I am now acquainted with your respected character. I shall never have pleasure to look upon your honorable face, for I have given my insignificant life to my Emperor, yet I write begging for your affection.

“Also I humbly asking that you will continue to show kindness to my little brothers and sisters, whom though they be unworthy, I am very sick to see. Sometimes I think all night long of that little Juji brother. Pray excuse each foolish emotion. I beg remain,

“Your filial step-son forever,

“KURUKAWA GOZO.”

XXII

THE country was ringing with the hateful news of the Kamrahn Bay incident. When a French name was mentioned, Japanese faces looked dark and bitter. Foreigners in Japan talked more about the matter than did the Japanese themselves, however, for they were silent and thought much. Nevertheless, this incident and others pierced deeply. Women, smiling strangely, told their little sons the story, and they repeated after their mothers the words: “We Japanese never forget!” In the higher classes of the schools the teachers quietly instructed their pupils of the unfriendly act of a “friendly” nation. The story-tellers in their halls enlarged upon the theme, and told the story over and over again, with greater exaggeration each time. By-and-by the news reached the ears of the Kurukawa family. Billy and Taro held a council of war.

“How to be revenged?” that was the question.

They marched up and down the little garden-path discussing the subject from every stand-point. By some unfortunate coincidence the little French boy from the neighboring street happened to pass the Kurukawa house at the fateful moment when this fierce debate was in progress. In one of those flashes that often come, even to children, Billy and Taro simultaneously recognized in him the object for just vengeance. With a bound Taro sprang through the garden-gate and seized the helpless and unsuspecting French boy, whom he dragged down the path. Then Taro sat upon him. Billy was jumping about wildly, throwing out his fists, and pretending to spit upon them. Taro, however, was quite calm.

“We kinnod,” said he, proudly, “_both_ beat thad French boy. That’s nod fair.”

Billy’s jaw dropped. Then his face brightened.

“Say, Japan doesn’t want to fight France _yet_. You leave him to _me_. They interfered in what wasn’t their affair, and now America’s going to do the same.”

Taro shook his head.

“You be England,” said he, wisely; “she our honorable ally.”

“I am English, then,” shrieked Billy; “all our people come from England originally. Mamma said so. Let him up.”

Taro reluctantly arose, permitting the crushed young Frenchman to do likewise. He was a little fellow, though past his fourteenth year. His eyes were very black and furtive, and he had a tiny little mouth that would not keep closed. Actually his face was smiling. He spoke Japanese with only slight hesitancy. His polite suggestion was that they should go to his father to borrow swords with which to fight a decent duel. The boys received this suggestion with shouts of derision. Then the little Frenchman declared he would not fight at all, and crossing his arms over his chest, told them they could murder him if they wished.

Billy surveyed him contemptuously.

“Say, what’s your name, anyhow?” he queried, after a moment.

“Alphonse Napoleon Tascherean.”

“Well, what do you think of that Kamrahn Bay matter?” continued Billy, curious to know the boy’s views; but Alphonse only shrugged expressive shoulders and smiled a little, subtle, sneering smile.

“D’ye remember how Taro licked you last fall?”

The French boy turned darkly red. His hands were in his pocket, and one of them suddenly flashed out. He had a knife.

“I no longer am afraid of heem,” he said, contemptuously. “I will cut him up—so! if he touch me once again!”

“You will?” cried Billy. “You think _we’re_ afraid of your old knife? Get it, Taro.”

Taro did get it, though he had a scratch on his hand to show how dangerous the undertaking was. Then the French boy’s assured manner vanished as if by magic. Quite piteously he began to cry. At the top of his voice he shouted aloud for “Pa-pa! Pa-pa!”

“We’re not going to hurt you after all,” said Billy, after a moment. “We’ll make you do something you’ll remember. Taro, help me tie his hands first.”

They secured him firmly.

“Now,” ordered Billy, “you run to the house and get that old French flag you and I have been using as a mark for firing at for some time, and get a Jap flag, too.”

Taro was gone but a moment, and then returned with the desired flags. These Billy took and held before the French boy.

“Now, you,” said he, “if you don’t want to stay tied up here all night, you just do what we tell you. Kiss that sun flag—right in the centre. That’s the thing! What!—Ah, you will, you divil,” for the French boy put his lips against the flag but a second, and then withdrew them to spit at it.

Taro had turned livid. In a flash he had seized the flag and was ramming it fiercely into the mouth of the French boy. Billy fought Taro back.

“Here, Taro! That’s not fair! He’s tied!”

He drew forth the flag. The dye ran down in livid streams on Alphonse’s chin. He fought vainly to free his arms.

“Now, you,” said Billy, “we’ll let you free if you’ll fight either one of us alone. But if you won’t, you’d better do what we tell you. If you don’t—”

Taro had quietly stripped himself to the waist prepared for battle. He was younger by several years than the French boy, but the latter had already felt the taste of the little Japanese’s strength. When he encountered that bloody purpose in the eye of Taro he trembled visibly.

“I will do what you ask,” he decided, suddenly.

“Good!” cried Billy. “_You_ believe in spitting, eh? Well, now you just spit good and plenty at _that_!” He thrust the French flag before Alphonse, who spat at his country’s flag. Then shrugging his shoulders, he swore as little boys of some nationalities do not.

Fifteen times he was forced to bow to the Japanese flag, touching each time the ground with his head. Finally he cried as instructed at the top of his voice:

“Vive la Nippon! Banzai!”

He went home a very much wilted and bedraggled little Frenchman, but he did not tell his papa or mamma of the flag incident.

When his father read with apparent exultation further news of Kamrahn Bay, Alphonse raised his little thin shoulders and eyebrows to venture the astonishing remark:

“Was it _wise_ of France, pa-pa?”

XXIII