HE SEIZED THE
OUTSTRETCHED HAND

A
UNITED STATES
MIDSHIPMAN
IN JAPAN

by
Lt. Com. Yates Stirling Jr. U.S.N.
Author of
“A U.S. Midshipman Afloat”
“A U.S. Midshipman in China”
“A U.S. Midshipman in the Philippines”

Illustrated by Ralph L. Boyer

THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
MCMXI

COPYRIGHT
1911 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Introduction

Philip Perry and Sydney Monroe are young officers in the United States navy. Although they have been out of the Naval Academy less than two years, and are still ranked as midshipmen, they have seen active service, as related in “A United States Midshipman Afloat” and “A United States Midshipman in China.” “A United States Midshipman in the Philippines” tells how Phil, with Sydney for executive officer, commanded a small gunboat in expeditions against the insurgents. Boatswain Jack O’Neil has been with the lads in many of their hazardous adventures, and the three are now on the “U. S. S. Alaska” in Japanese waters.

The story deals with a misunderstanding between the United States and the Island Kingdom. This complication causes a few days of anxiety to both nations, and gets some people into serious difficulties but, needless to say, it is purely fictitious.

Contents

Illustrations

A United States Midshipman
in Japan

CHAPTER I
THE MAN IN THE NEXT COMPARTMENT

It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and there was unusual activity in the railroad station at Yokohama. Uniformed officials were scurrying to and fro, bending every effort to dispose of the great crowd of stolid Japanese travelers and at the same time, with due formality and ceremony, provide a special train for their lately arrived American naval visitors.

So painstaking and anxious were these energetic and efficient little personages to please those whom their government had chosen to honor, that suddenly, at a signal, they stemmed the great influx of their own people, sidetracked the steady and ever-increasing flow of bright colored silks, and did it as easily as if they were but putting a freight train on a siding. Not one murmur was heard from the crowd delayed so abruptly; the travelers waited, talking and laughing joyfully. To them it was all pleasure. There was no necessity for haste. When the honorable railroad officials were ready, then there would be plenty of time for them to get on their trains. They had no thought of questioning the acts of their Emperor’s officials, who wore the imperial badge of office—the sixteen petal chrysanthemum.

“Did you ever see such docility on the part of a traveling public?” Midshipman Philip Perry exclaimed, gazing wonderingly at the good-natured, smiling faces of the Japanese about him. “Imagine, if you can, a New York crowd waiting like this at the Grand Central Station for a dozen Japanese officers to board a special train.”

The midshipman was one of a party of American naval officers, recently arrived in Japan, and journeying as the guests of the Japanese nation to their picturesque and historic capital—Tokyo.

Lieutenant Hugh Winston, one of the party, smiled knowingly as he read the wonder in the eyes of the two youngest of the party, Midshipmen Perry and Sydney Monroe. Winston was an officer of some years’ standing, and the character of the Japanese subject was one with which he considered himself on very intimate terms, after three cruises on the Asiatic Station in American war-ships.

“You can compare the Mikado’s loyal subjects to no others on earth,” Winston returned. “Every man you see in this crowd has served his country as a soldier or sailor. All recognize an order when they hear it, and I can tell you they obey, too.”

There was small doubt of their obedience. The good-humored crowd, increasing in numbers every minute, stood in orderly merriment watching the tall representatives of the United States of America, led by obsequious railroad officials, pass through their midst and into the coaches of a special train. Following the handful of naval officers in their severely plain civilian clothes came many score of American men-of-war’s men dressed in the picturesque sailor garb, while walking hand in hand with them the little Japanese sailors, the hosts of their giant visitors, appeared in striking contrast.

The congestion in the traffic of the Tokaido Railroad was soon relieved; a shrill whistle from one of the officials—and immediately the wheels were again in motion and the patient Japanese were once more on their way to their waiting trains.

“A Japanese crowd has no terrors for the public officials,” Lieutenant Winston said by way of information, as he and the midshipmen settled themselves in one of the compartments of the tiny coaches of the train. “In Japan discipline begins at the mother’s knee. Filial obedience is part of their religion, and they are taught to obey their Emperor as the father of them all.”

“I have always heard that they are classed among the best fighters in the world,” Phil Perry said admiringly. “The fighting man with them is in a class by himself. Isn’t it so?” he asked the older officer at his side.

“The ‘Samurai,’ or fighting class, is the aristocracy of Japan,” Winston replied. “They symbolize the fighting barons of our middle ages; quick to resent an insult or avenge a wrong. Their code of honor is centuries old. These are the men you will meet in Tokyo. The naval and military officers are all recruited from the families of the ‘Samurai.’ You will see in them the most polite of a polite nation.”

“What is the object of the ‘Alaska’s’ visit to Japan?” Sydney Monroe suddenly asked as Winston ended his eulogy on the Japanese race. “Our relations are not over friendly, if we can believe some of our yellow journal newspapers.”

“That is not to be discussed except within an air-tight cell,” Winston returned gravely, a warning ring in his voice. “We are here on a friendly visit to be present at the garden fête of the Emperor of Japan.”

Meanwhile the train had glided out of the long, low station shed and picked its way over a score of tracks to the one leading straight to the metropolis and capital of the island empire. Stations, consisting of miniature structures with their long, narrow platforms came noisily out of the world ahead and were left behind with a waning moan as if in protest at being given but a fleeting glimpse of the big strangers.

The conversation had come to an abrupt stop after Lieutenant Winston’s words of caution and the three Americans sat silently gazing out of their open windows at the ever-changing landscape.

The sailors with their Japanese escorts were in the cars ahead where they were leaning far out of the windows, excitedly acknowledging the “banzais” from the groups of peasants who had collected on the station platforms to see the Americans pass.

Philip Perry restlessly left his seat and walked slowly along the narrow aisle of the car. He noticed casually in passing that the door of the compartment next their own was closed, and the blinds drawn. The other two compartments he saw were empty, for the railroad officials had provided more than sufficient accommodations for their party. He reached the car ahead, and stood gazing for a second at the sailors within. Retracing his steps, he stopped at the side of the car opposite the compartment next his own. Suddenly he was conscious of a voice coming through the compartment door which from a closer inspection he now saw was only ajar. The train had slackened its speed, then noisily stopped. While he listened the voice died away, and he was on the point of going to the platform to ascertain the cause of the stoppage of the train when the voice that had attracted his attention began again, this time clear and distinct. Phil unconsciously listened, believing the speaker was one of his brother officers, but what he heard caused him to catch his breath in surprise. He held himself rigid, straining to hear every word, while his indignation showed plainly in his set features.

“Baron, every day you put off this inevitable war with America makes Japan’s chance for success in the Orient the less,” were the startling words that Phil heard spoken with a marked British accent. “Now the opportunity is given you. Her fleet is in Manila, all naval men will tell you that it must be at a great disadvantage. It lacks supply ships and torpedo-boat destroyers. Your fleet is here at your source of supply. Depend upon it, Baron,” the voice declared, in excited, eager tones, “this cruise has come to mislead you. America knows the danger surrounding her fleet. She has blundered in sending it so far from home, and now wishes to safely withdraw it, or strengthen it with the Chinese ships. It is one thing or the other. You must increase your efforts with the ministers if your dreams are to be realized.”

Phil’s heart beat wildly as he stood listening, hardly daring to breathe lest he should betray his presence before he had heard all. The same voice was again speaking.

“You must know that whatever America will say, it will be insincere. America covets the entire trade of China, and unless your nation halts it as you did Russia she will through her rapidly growing wealth accomplish her end. She is negotiating for the Chinese battle-ships while this cruiser here will endeavor to allay suspicion. Unless Japan acts promptly——”

With a succession of jolts the train was again noisily in motion, and the door of the compartment swung shut with a spiteful click. Phil was trembling with excitement. Here on the threshold of their visit he had surprised a plot to force his country into a war. What should he do? He could not go openly and accuse those in the compartment; that would be dramatic, but would be barren of results. His best course would be to discover the identity of the speaker and the man addressed as Baron, who Phil knew must be a Japanese nobleman, and then warn his captain of the conspiracy on foot. But how should he be able to discover their identity? Who could tell him their names?

He could pretend to enter their compartment by mistake, and impress their faces indelibly upon his memory, to be used at some future time. With this object in view Phil placed his hand on the door-knob trying to turn it, only to find the latch had fallen from within. Frustrated, he stood thinking excitedly as to what his next move should be. The door of his own compartment suddenly opened and Sydney Monroe, his companion and classmate at the Naval Academy at Annapolis, gazed in surprise at the stern set face of his friend.

“What’s the matter, Phil?” he exclaimed. “You look as if you’d just seen a ghost. Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

Phil held his hand up for silence and entered his own compartment.

“There are people in there,” he exclaimed excitedly, indicating with a nod, “whom we must recognize and remember. It’s the most barefaced case of conspiracy that I’ve ever known.” And then he detailed almost word for word what he had heard.

While he was yet talking and his two companions were listening eagerly, consternation growing in their excited minds, the train again came to a halt, but for just a moment, and then was off again.

A few minutes later it was plain that the country had been left behind and that the suburbs of Tokyo were at hand. The train passed through row after row of tiny wooden dwellings, built like card houses, appearing to be ready for some giant hand to smooth them flat. On sped the train across miniature stone bridges and through beautifully laid out parks, until a sudden screech of the whistle and the gripping of the brakes announced that the journey was over, and Tokyo had been reached.

Phil scarcely waited for the train to stop before he was in the passage, gazing about in the gloom (the passage being unlighted) for the occupants of the next compartment. Its door stood open, but they were not there. He rushed to the platform, but he saw no strange faces, only his brother officers and the sailors. What could it mean? Then he understood the meaning of the stop only a few miles before the train reached Tokyo. The occupants of the next compartment were men of consequence, and even a special train ordered by the Emperor of Japan could be stopped at their will.

“Well, I shan’t forget that voice, anyway,” Phil exclaimed disappointedly to his companions while the three moved slowly toward the exit gate.

CHAPTER II
IN THE EMPEROR’S GARDENS

“If we could only have had a glimpse of the man’s face,” Phil Perry exclaimed dejectedly as the three naval men who had occupied the compartment together were driving rapidly from the railroad station. “Who can he be, and to whom was he talking?”

The streets fronting the depot were filled with a curious and enthusiastic crowd of Japanese, and as the Americans passed rapidly through in victorias, their mafoos wearing the royal liveries, the multitude gave voice to their welcome in repeated and prolonged shouts of “Banzai—Ten Thousand Years of Happiness!”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit for discovering a plot,” Lieutenant Winston returned sceptically, after their carriage had freed itself of the crowd and was moving along a quieter street. “What you heard is only the usual stereotyped opinion of our so-called friends here in the Far East. The European merchant and also the European resident in the Orient are trembling for fear the United States may get all the trade of China, which she might readily be doing now, if our merchant marine were equal to that of Germany or England.”

“I don’t see how that has any bearing on the subject,” Phil exclaimed, somewhat nettled at Winston’s tone of patronage.

“Simply that in order to put us out of the running they are doing their best to talk Japan and the United States into a war,” Winston replied. “To your face they are very friendly, but, behind your back! Well! it’s really best to refrain from hearing, if you can, for it’s never complimentary. They don’t love Japan any too well, but the grasping Yankee——” he ended with an expressive wave of his hand, for the crunching of gravel under the wheels of their carriage drowned his voice completely. They were entering the courtyard of the Imperial Hotel. A few minutes later all had alighted in the spacious lobby, and were being led ceremoniously to their rooms, engaged by the imperial government, whose guests they were as long as they remained in Tokyo.

“They are doing things lavishly,” Sydney exclaimed, after he had surveyed the street from his window. Great crowds of eager people had gathered about the hotel with small American flags in their hands to bid their guests welcome, while the avenue beyond as far as the eye could reach was festooned with the colors of the two nations.

“Here’s a program of our entertainment,” Winston called from his room adjoining. “They are certainly most hospitable.”

Phil and Sydney looked closely at the printed program which the servant had brought them. It was carefully and handsomely arranged, giving a sketch map of Tokyo with all the important buildings marked, and the locations of the numerous places of entertainment.

“You’d think we were foreign princes instead of only common every-day naval officers,” Sydney said as he finished reading. Phil’s face was thoughtful.

“I wonder if this welcome is really sincere,” he questioned. “The newspapers say that the relations between the two countries are terribly strained. In America we could not display this mask of friendship if there was dislike in our hearts. But the Orientals, if one may believe the writers on the subject, are different. An order from their Emperor would be sufficient to freeze a smile on everyone’s face;—a perpetual smile, made for the occasion.”

The midshipmen and Winston were now fully dressed in their most official uniform, and were patiently waiting the summons to join their captain.

Captain Rodgers, in command of the United States cruiser “Alaska,” had arrived with his ship in Japan at the time of the annual garden fête, given at the height of bloom of the chrysanthemum, the sacred flower of Japan. It had been rumored that this was not the reason of the “Alaska’s” visit; but certain it was that His Majesty had immediately sent them out invitations for the royal fête, provided a special train, rooms at the Imperial Hotel, put carriages always at their disposal, and caused to be prepared an elaborate program of entertainment,—all for his unexpected American naval visitors.

All Tokyo was in gala dress. Everywhere the chrysanthemum was displayed, of all sizes and all colors. The holiday crowd was in good humor, and as the carriages of the naval men, in all their gold lace, drove rapidly along, they were greeted on all sides with welcoming “banzais” from hundreds of throats.

“There’s nothing belligerent in this welcome,” Lieutenant Winston exclaimed, as he waved gallantly to the smiling faces below him.

They were soon approaching the residence of the ambassador; farther up the street the bridge, across which lay the sacred grounds of the Emperor’s palace, came into view. The crowd here became more dense, and the carriages slowed to a snail’s pace. The familiar uniform of the American sailors was seen, dotted here and there among the crowd. Some were in rikishas, while others were on foot; but all were thoroughly enjoying the novel spectacle.

The ambassador’s carriage met the naval officers in front of his own gate and led the way toward the stone bridge. Many policemen were lined up on each side of the thoroughfare, intent upon keeping the roadway clear for the numerous state carriages. The little jinrikishas darted here and there between the carriages, making the onlooker almost fearful for the life of their occupants.

“If we were in New York, the traffic squad policeman would be on that fellow’s trail,” Sydney Monroe cried out as an automobile dashed by them.

The three watched the speeding machine with bated breath. A loud cry from the crowd and then a hoarse murmur of protest, and the machine had come to a stop alongside the next carriage ahead.

Phil’s quick eye had seen the whole affair, and indignantly he jumped to the ground to see if the sailorman whose jinrikisha had been so ruthlessly bowled over had received injuries. The Japanese onlookers, quick to resent injustice, had formed a solid wall about the machine, their intention evidently being not to allow the culprits to escape until the police had investigated the damages and injuries.

Phil helped the sailor occupant of the overturned jinrikisha to his feet. He was dazed but unhurt. One of the man’s friends had excitedly taken the driver of the machine to task for his recklessness, and the answer was angry and, Phil thought, almost brutal.

“It served him jolly well right. What right have you sailors to block the roadway?”

A toot of the horn and the crowd melted away from in front of the machine. There are few who can stand calmly before an automobile if its engine is whirring and the loud screech of its syren bids you to step aside. But the lad was angry straight through, not only at the man’s recklessness, but at his unfeeling answer to the sailor, and further, there was something familiar in the man’s voice. Phil therefore stood his ground.

“Please, I’d like your number,” he cried out, raising his hand impetuously to stay the machine. The car gave a quick leap, and Phil all but fell to the ground. Then it stopped, and as Phil recovered himself the picture he beheld was a very stirring one. The motor had come to a halt, but not voluntarily; a sailorman was standing on the step, the clutch lever held securely back, while the man in the car had taken off his goggles and was staring angrily at the bold American.

“How dare you lay hands on me!” he cried.

Jack O’Neil, boatswain’s mate in the United States navy, might not have heard the angry exclamation, for all the answer he gave. He was awaiting orders from his superior officer.

“I’ve got him, sir,” he said quietly.

“We have his number, sir,” another sailor volunteered.

Phil waved his hand to O’Neil; the latter let go the clutch lever, and slid back into the gaping crowd, not however without a parting sally.

“Say, mister, remember next time when you’re in a hurry not to run over an American; he is liable to puncture your tire.”

The noise of the gears drowned his words, but from his gleeful chuckle O’Neil seemed to have enjoyed his own bit of pleasantry, and after all that was all that was necessary, for a foreigner could not be expected to understand American wit.

The little Japanese police had been hard by, and doubtless enjoyed the businesslike way in which O’Neil handled a delicate situation, but they were carrying out their orders received from no less an authority than the chief of police—to hold themselves aloof from the visiting man-of-war’s men, and under no circumstances to make arrests unless for the sailors’ own safety.

The little incident was all over in a few moments, and before the occupants of any other carriage could reach the scene to inquire into the cause of the disturbance, Phil was back again in his own carriage, writing the number given him by the sailor in his pocket note-book, to be saved for future reference.

“Not hurt, only jolted a bit,” was his explanation to the inquiries of his companions.

“Did you notice beauty in distress on the rear seat of the auto?” Lieutenant Winston’s eyes were twinkling. “There were two of them, and, by Jove! I envied you standing there championing the fallen, with their admiring eyes upon you.”

He read the surprise in Phil’s face. “What, didn’t see them! My! it looked to me as if you were playing up to the part. I’ll wager that the chap driving will have a bad half hour with them for his recklessness.”

Phil decided not to announce his suspicions, for after all he might be mistaken. The man’s voice certainly sounded like the one in the next compartment in the train, but then there was a great similarity between English voices to an American ear.

The arrival of the leaders at the gates of the palace grounds cut short further speculation upon the incident.

“On foot from here,” they were told by obsequious gentlemen in waiting, and glad to be able to stretch their limbs after the drive, the officers alighted, and were conducted through the Emperor’s magnificent gardens to the large pavilion where the fête was to be held.

For the next half hour the two midshipmen felt that they were peeping at a scene from fairy-land. The grace and color of everything the eye touched upon was pleasing—the foliage of the trees, the profusion of flowers, the delicate perfume impregnating the air. Silks, satins, and gold lace were on every hand. Men whose names were household words for diplomacy and war were where a hand could be reached out to touch them.

“This is as near fame as I’ll ever get, probably,” Sydney whispered as the well-known features of the prime minister appeared at his elbow, their coat sleeves touching in the crowd.

“Look at Winston over there,” Phil returned in the same spirit of fun. “That’s as near to a naval hero as he’ll be for some time.”

So engrossed were the lads in noting the famous Japanese statesmen and celebrities of two foreign wars, whose likenesses had become familiar to them from studies of the history of this wonderful island kingdom, that an elderly gentleman had been striving to speak to them for several moments before they became aware of his presence.

Turning, both midshipmen grasped eagerly the outstretched hand of the American ambassador.

“I have you both here, after all, and I mean to hold on to you if I must imprison you to do it,” the Honorable Henry Tillotson exclaimed, shaking their hands warmly and smiling down upon them from his stand on the grassy embankment.

“Nothing would suit us better, eh, Syd?” Phil cried gladly.

A young girl, dressed all in white, stood at the ambassador’s side, but he paid her no attention, so delighted was he in welcoming the two lads. She smiled happily upon the scene, while her gloved hand plucked her father’s arm gently to remind him of her presence.

The passing crowd glanced admiringly at the group, and especially at the graceful American girl.

The ambassador was still oblivious of her. His kindly face beamed with pleasure, and he was loath to give up the sturdy brown hands within his own.

Then came a sudden pause, and the smile on Mr. Tillotson’s face died suddenly away. His thoughts had quickly traveled far off to the Philippine Islands, where he had last seen these young men beside him. He had gone there to bring away the body of an only boy—a son whom he had loved, but who had grieved his father’s heart by his wild and erratic life. A soldier’s grave had sealed within it his boy and all the bitterness that had been in the father’s breast for him. And these young men, barely more than boys, had been important actors in the closing tragedy of that son’s life. One of them had led a forlorn hope in an endeavor to save him from the Filipino traitor who had taken his life, and yet there this boy stood—Philip Perry—in the bright sunlight, and he would never see his son again.

But his boy had been a soldier, and had died a soldier’s death. The joy of the present must not be marred.

The ambassador was being attentively observed by the young girl at his elbow; she had seen his keen joy upon greeting these two striking young American officers, and then almost immediately had seen the smile fade and his shoulders perceptibly droop, and her womanly instinct was at once alert to help him overcome this burden of sorrow and dead hope.

“Father, I shall have to introduce myself, if you forget your parental duty,” she whispered softly in his ear.

This brought the wandering thoughts of the sorrowing man to the scene before him.

He was again his jovial self. His arm went out and about the girlish waist and he drew her gently to his side.

“Why, child, I thought you were with the Kingsleys,” he said. “My daughter, Helen,” he added proudly.

The midshipmen bowed. Phil felt a deep blush mount to his face as he took her proffered fingers. He had expected to see a child, and here was a grown up young lady. Yet he assured himself that he was not sorry.

“I feel as if I had known you both for years,” she said cordially. “We came in a motor,” she added to her father’s exclamation. “That was how we arrived before you.” Phil cast a swift glance of inquiry at her, and the quick look of understanding in Helen Tillotson’s face brought again the blush to his cheek. She had been one of the two ladies in the car he had stopped. Then she would know the name of the man who had run down the sailor. “I don’t want to go into the receiving tent with the Kingsleys, when I can go in with my own countrymen,” Helen continued coaxingly to her father.

“I must present Captain Rodgers and his officers, Helen,” the ambassador returned, his face anxious. “I thought you were quite satisfied with the plan. You are very uncertain,” he added in some annoyance. “You know how much the Japanese think of etiquette in these formal affairs.”

“Why not go in with Mr. Perry and me?” Sydney asked, as he stepped forward eagerly to the girl’s side. “We are not important—midshipmen don’t count for much with all this rank about.” Phil smiled broadly on his companion for so ably saving the situation; the ambassador appeared greatly relieved, while Helen gladly accepted the offered escort.

“They are going in now,” she exclaimed, letting go her father’s arm as a Japanese aide-de-camp of high naval rank bowed ceremoniously to the ambassador and offered himself as their companion to escort them into the presence of their Majesties.

The two midshipmen experienced that sensation that every one has felt who has marched behind a band as they walked slowly between two lines of Japanese imperial guards, their rifles held rigidly at the “present,” while the Emperor’s band played the impressive national anthem of Japan. Ahead of them were many notables; the diplomatic corps in their court dress, their breasts emblazoned with jeweled orders and decorations; officers of the army and navy, and with these were the naval and military attachés from foreign lands. Helen and her midshipmen followed after the military and naval men, while behind them came the court set of Tokyo.

Neither of the lads remembered afterward much of what happened when they were once inside of the spacious receiving tent; its walls hung with flags to represent one great red and white chrysanthemum, emblematic of both the flower and the Mikado’s family crest. To Phil the Emperor’s face had been a blur, while the Empress he could recall only as a slight figure in black with many sparkling jewels. It was over in a moment, and the three young people found themselves strolling together along one of the beautifully kept garden paths.

“Isn’t it marvelous?” Helen exclaimed as she saw the wonder in the lads’ faces. “The Japanese are the most artistic people in the world. Every place they touch turns into a fairy-land.”

“What strikes me most forcibly,” Phil replied enthusiastically, “is how such matter-of-fact, serious people as they are can find time to be so artistic. Now with us in America we find ourselves too busy keeping up with the progress of the day to indulge in art and beauty. We leave that to those who have nothing else to do.”

“I know,” Helen said sorrowfully, “and more’s the pity. We are so prosaic in America; while here even the poorest artisan has the magic gift of beautifying what he creates. A thing that displeases the eye, never mind how strongly it is made, is a failure.”

“And all this fuss is being made over the blooming of a flower,” Sydney said questioningly. “We don’t have any such fête in our country.”

“I see you don’t know your own country,” Helen replied banteringly. “In California they have the flower battles when the roses are in full bloom, and they crown a king and queen, while in New Orleans they have the winter carnival. Both ideas are very similar to the flower fêtes in Japan, only here there is no necessity to crown a king.”

They stopped before a number of large plants which appeared covered with flowers; the stalk of each had been secured to a stick stuck in the ground to support its burden of blossoms.

“There is the highest chrysanthemum cultivation,” Helen said, indicating the bush; “you may count sometimes one thousand flowers on a single plant.”

The lads looked disappointedly at the tiny blossoms.

“They don’t look like the chrysanthemums we know,” Phil said. “They are so small. Ours are big and massive.”

“So were these before the Japanese began the cultivation,” the girl returned. “They consider our flowers crude and ugly. The highest art is accomplished when one small plant is grown to give many hundred blossoms.”

Phil strived to appear interested in the cultivation of Japan’s national flower, but his thoughts were mostly upon the identity of the man in the next compartment on the train from Tokyo. He was on the point of inquiring from Helen Tillotson the name of the driver of the machine she had come in, but he decided that it would be more seemly if she first said something about the accident. The lad had not long to wait, for as they turned about Sydney left them and he found himself alone with the girl.

“You were splendid this afternoon,” she said enthusiastically. “I was so glad to see Mr. Impey taken to task for his reckless driving.”

“I had no idea you were in the machine,” Phil returned, highly pleased at her friendliness. “I hope you weren’t annoyed at being held there before such a crowd. I saw it happen and my anger got the better of me. I really didn’t intend to be theatrical,” he added, blushing fiercely.

“You weren’t a bit,” Helen hastened to assure him, “but I was so incensed at Mr. Impey’s retort to the anxious sailor, who was only giving him some well-meant advice, that I have refused to ride back with the Kingsleys in his car.”

“The sailor was not hurt,” Phil said thoughtfully, “and I hope I haven’t made one of your friends my enemy. He is here, I suppose?” he asked, his pulse beating quicker as he remembered the similarity in voice to the man on the train.

“Yes, we shall see him before long,” she replied. “He goes everywhere, and knows every one in Tokyo worth knowing.”

They had come to a crossway in the path; the conversation had died out from lack of a topic. Phil contemplated the regular profile of the girl beside him.

“We will turn here,” she said, indicating the path to the left, “and go to the refreshment tent. That’s where we shall find all our friends.”

“I am in no hurry to return,” he exclaimed, stopping suddenly.

“You don’t know how anxious you are to return until you meet all the dainty little Japanese maidens waiting to serve you with all sorts of nice things to eat and drink,” she said smiling. “Besides,” she added archly, “I haven’t met all our officers from the ‘Alaska.’ I know, of course, that Mr. Philip Perry is a host in himself, but——”

“I am sorry you think me so selfish and self-centred,” he interrupted, much confused. “You are so different from what I expected,” he blurted out. “I thought you were only a little girl. Won’t you forgive me for sending you all those senseless messages in my letters to your father?”

Helen bit her lips. “Oh, it was very nice of you to send them,” she said.

“Would you mind introducing me to Mr. Impey?” Phil asked, bravely changing the subject and speaking the wish uppermost in his mind. “I’d like to apologize for my rudeness to him. I did not know, until Lieutenant Winston told me, that ladies were in the machine.”

While talking they had approached the refreshment tent, and Helen was at once surrounded by Phil’s messmates from the “Alaska,” all anxious for an introduction.

The two midshipmen soon found themselves on the outskirts of the crowd. Helen had promised the introduction to Mr. Impey if Phil would only locate him, so the two companions drifted along on the lookout for him.

“I have an idea, Syd,” Phil whispered, “that this Mr. Impey of the automobile is the conspirator I overheard on the train. Here’s a chance for some nice work to run him to earth if he is. A voice is a dangerous identification to pin much faith upon, but people have been betrayed by that means in lots of criminal cases.”

“Don’t put too much confidence in such an airy clue,” Sydney replied; “but it’s worth investigation, at all events.”

Leaving Sydney with Captain Rodgers, Phil strolled slowly away on his quest for the owner of the automobile. The crowd about him was dense, and he soon saw the hopelessness of locating even a familiar face in such a throng. Dazed by the crowd and still speculating upon Impey’s identity, his eyes were on the gravel path. Suddenly a Japanese lieutenant barred his way. The lad politely stepped aside for him to pass.

Then he was aware that this naval man had prodded him in the ribs. A flush of annoyance came into his face. It was not pleasant to have one’s thoughts so rudely interrupted. He raised his eyes and gazed blankly at a Japanese officer standing directly in his path and laughing heartily up at him. Phil was conscious of even white teeth and a deep black moustache. No spark of recognition came to him as he once more stepped aside, murmuring an apology for his awkwardness. But the obstacle still was in front of him.

“Perry! how are you, Perry!” The naval officer’s English, with scarce an accent, opened the flood-gates of memory.

“Well, of all the luck,” Phil exclaimed heartily, the annoyance of a moment since dying in his face as he seized the outstretched hand of his former classmate at the Naval Academy at Annapolis.

“Taki, you young heathen,” he cried, hugging the young Japanese boyishly.

Mutakito Takishima was laughing joyously, and in turn wringing Phil’s hand and slapping him over the shoulder.

“I am so glad to see you, Perry,” Takishima cried again, renewing his demonstrations of affection.

This meeting of two old friends and their evident joy at seeing each other again caused the curious ones to stop, and the little Japanese saw that very soon the walk would become crowded.

“Will you come with me, Perry?” he asked, and Phil, accepting readily, marched away arm in arm with his classmate.

They made their way to one of the many tents spread on the velvety grass of the garden. Phil gazed in admiration at the wonderful construction of these frail out-of-door houses. The material was of many delicate tints, and all bedecked with flags. The floors were covered with costly rugs, while polished tables and upholstered chairs were strewn about in profusion, the tables well covered with refreshments.

As they entered several dainty little Japanese girls came running up with their quaint shuffling gait, and bowed low, uttering polite words of welcome in their own language.

Takishima clicked his heels together and bowed almost to the ground before these sparkling-eyed little ladies, dressed in exquisitely embroidered silk and satin kimonos.

“Miss Kamikura and my sister, Hama-san,” Takishima said, smiling with keen enjoyment at Phil’s evident pleasure. Phil bowed and shook hands in American fashion with the two bright-faced Japanese girls. He recognized the name of one to be the same as an illustrious admiral.

“My chief’s daughter,” Takishima added, in a low tone to Phil, while the young ladies with their own hands brought refreshments from the heaping tables. “They are ladies of the household, assisting our Empress at the garden fête.”

Phil gazed with renewed interest at these doll-like beauties, wishing to speak, yet believing that surely neither could understood English.

“How old are they?” he thought—“surely not beyond sixteen years.”

Takishima had been talking to the young ladies in his own soft language, while Phil studied their enthusiastic faces. He knew that he was the subject of the conversation, and felt very conscious until Hama-san changed this feeling to one of delighted surprise.

“Then you are one of my brother’s schoolmates,” Takishima’s sister, Hama-san, exclaimed, again bowing gracefully to Phil. The midshipman was startled to hear one of these delicate dolls speak his own difficult language, and the surprise in his face caused all three of his companions to laugh gayly.

“You speak English!” he gasped, and then joined in the laugh on himself. “How stupid of me,” he added hastily. “O Hama-san was at Vassar while Taki was at Annapolis.

“Do you speak English too?” he asked of Miss Kamikura.

Cho Kamikura, or O Chio-san, as she was called by her friends, shook her head, smiling nevertheless into the lad’s face.

Phil almost dropped the plate from which he was eating, as he suddenly saw his sought for Mr. Impey enter the tent and come directly toward his party. Takishima grasped his hand cordially, while his woman companion stopped to speak with Phil’s new-found girl friends. Then, his pulse beating fast, he felt Takishima’s hand on his arm, and he turned about to encounter the not too friendly eyes of Impey.

“Perry, let me introduce you to Mr. Impey. He is a great friend of His Excellency, the American ambassador,” and then the ceremonious Japanese officer introduced Phil to Mrs. Kingsley and then to Mr. Kingsley, who had lagged behind his wife.

This was the automobile party with whom Helen Tillotson had come to the garden fête, and who on their way had run down the sailor’s rikisha. Phil glanced covertly at Impey as he bowed over the hands of the two Japanese young ladies. “A friend of his ambassador and, of course, of Helen,” he thought; “then he could hardly be the same man who had insisted in the railway coach that America was intentionally misleading Japan, and would eventually force a war upon her to wrest from her the fruits of her victory over Russia.”

“By Jove, Mr. Perry,” Mr. Impey exclaimed loudly as he returned to Phil’s side, “it was very stupid of me to run down one of your sailors. I was most awfully glad to find he was unhurt.”

Phil thanked him quietly, but without enthusiasm. He felt that his sympathy was not genuine.

“You championed him beautifully,” Impey added, smiling patronizingly. “The ladies with me were much impressed, and showed me their displeasure.”

Phil blushed deeply. The apology that he had determined upon stuck in his throat. He decided now it was unnecessary. There was a vague, intangible something in the man’s voice which made Phil suspicious that Impey was not what he would like to appear. What it was Phil was at a loss to describe, but he resolved that he would give his best efforts to discovering it, and hoped that his judgment had not misled him. He now believed that Impey and the man in the next compartment on the train were one and the same person.

CHAPTER III
WAR TALK

They had only just finished the cooling refreshments so daintily served them, when the American party, led by one of Japan’s most illustrious admirals, entered the tent. Lieutenant Takishima was on his feet in an instant, his heels firmly together, and his hand raised to his cap vizor. Phil followed the little Japanese’s example, and grasped the naval hero’s hand warmly as the latter stepped over to greet him.

“Admiral Kamikura is my chief; he is our Minister of Marine,” Takishima whispered as the high ranking naval officer returned to Captain Rodgers’ side. “It was he who commanded the cruiser squadron during our late war.”

Phil nodded: his eyes were devouring admiringly and with a great deal of reverence the short well-built naval officer. He marveled at the youthful appearance of this admiral; Captain Rodgers looked years older. He turned questioning eyes upon his foreign classmate.

“He is very young for an admiral?” There was mystification in his voice.

Takishima shrugged his shoulders.

“About forty-five,” he answered. “He has been an admiral two years.”

Phil sighed thoughtfully. He was thinking of the difference between the two navies. Captain Rodgers, he knew, had passed his fifty-fifth birthday, and was no nearer than three years to his rear admiral’s commission.

The Kingsleys had left Mr. Impey with his new-found friends, and had joined Miss Tillotson and the newcomers. As if by mutual consent Takishima and his party had withdrawn to a small table farthest from the refreshment booth where Sydney had enthusiastically pounced upon the Japanese lieutenant, and the two were demonstrative over this unlooked-for meeting.

“Less than two years ago, Taki, you were only a midshipman, and now you have two gold stripes on your sleeve!” Sydney exclaimed in wonder. “That’s promotion for you!”

“It is a high compliment to your academy at Annapolis,” Takishima replied, smiling blandly. “You and Perry would now be lieutenants if you were in our navy.”

“Oh, that would be impossible,” Phil laughed gayly. “Imagine our giving orders to your sailors.”

“Do you remember how you tacked ship in the ‘Severn’ on the practice cruise?” Sydney asked reminiscently, his happy face all smiles at the recollection. “You were so rattled you had forgotten your English, but you sang out your orders in Japanese at the right time and she went about beautifully. You knew the time, but didn’t remember the words, eh, Taki?”

Takishima was not the slightest bit hurt at this playful jibe. His answer showed that only too plainly.

“Do you remember Lieutenant-Commander Hesler?” he exclaimed happily. “Well, I tried to imitate the sound of his orders and I don’t know what I said. I think most of it was Japanese, but I was not so frightened that I forgot when the orders should be given.”

“Did you see anything of the war?” Phil asked the question suddenly.

“I was in the big battle with Admiral Kamikura; on his staff,” Takishima answered proudly.

The two midshipmen gazed with envious eyes at their classmate. They now regarded him in a different light. He was no longer the unassuming little midshipman they had known at the naval academy; inoffensive, good natured, ever willing to play a practical joke and never hurt when one was played upon him. This diminutive youngster, probably a year younger than they, had taken part in, seen with his own eyes, the greatest modern naval engagement of the century. He had seen great battle-ships in action, had experienced the horror of high explosive shells bursting near him. He had seen many men killed and battle-ships sink beneath the seas, carrying their doomed crews with them.

“There was one point on which you were touchy, Taki, and I could never understand why,” Sydney said, and immediately looked as if he would have liked to withdraw the question, for he saw a cloud of annoyance pass over Takishima’s face.

“At being called a ‘Jap’?” Takishima asked. His face was quite sober as he made his inquiry, and received Sydney’s nod.

“Would you like me to call you a Yankee?” The question was asked almost fiercely. “Well, that’s why I didn’t like being called a Jap. I don’t know why, and neither do you, but you see we both object to the words being used to us by people of another race.”

“I’ll try to remember, Taki,” Sydney agreed in conciliation, “but we Americans are so prone to abbreviate everything. We don’t mean to belittle you when we speak of your people as ‘Japs.’”

Mr. Impey, although silent, had not missed a word. He was carefully studying the characters of this little scene. How might he use them in the plans that he had been carefully formulating in his scheming brain? Trained to diplomacy, he quickly perceived the relationship existing between these naval men. Their training had been along parallel lines, but one had gone back to his own people and had been entrusted with duties high above the grasp of his classmates in naval school days. The Americans impressed Impey as irresponsible boys, while the young Japanese seemed deeper, more thoughtful and calculating. Impey could see that each in time of peril would not shirk danger; but the Americans would be rash, while the Japanese lieutenant would be cautious and calculating.

“And you,” Takishima asked quickly, to change the subject; “you have seen service?”

The lads nodded their heads, while Phil answered in an apologetic voice.

“In the Philippines, in China and South America, but nothing like your experiences. You must tell us about it some time.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” Takishima replied truthfully. “I was very much frightened at first, but afterward I became so excited I forgot my fear.

“Yet I don’t remember a thing that happened,” he went on. “I tried to afterward when the admiral directed me to write a report. All I could say was we opened fire at the enemy and they fired back at us.”

Sydney and Phil both laughed at Takishima’s droll way of putting things.

Suddenly Takishima rose to go.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” he begged politely. “My admiral, on whose staff I am, has already gone, so I must follow.” He shook hands affectionately with his classmates. “I am sure you and Mr. Impey will have plenty to talk about,” he added. “Mr. Impey is very much interested in war-ships.”

Phil believed he detected that Impey started imperceptibly at Takishima’s words; but nothing he had said seemed to Phil to be of significance. He welcomed an opportunity to talk with this man and perhaps surprise him into that which would betray him. They watched Takishima walk briskly away, his small dirk, the Samurai emblem of honor, jingling at his side.

“Nice chap that,” Impey said quietly. “He’s the Minister of Marine’s right hand aide.”

They had all risen to bid Takishima good-bye, and now found themselves once more on the gravel walk of the path.

“Come,” Impey exclaimed as he led the way. “It’s not often we barbarians get a glimpse within the royal enclosure, so we must make the most of it while we can.”

Robert Impey knew when to be silent. While the midshipmen were conversing with their classmate he had listened discreetly; but now he displayed the conversational art which had lifted him from an humble accountant in a Chinese bank to a position of wealth and influence. What his position was Phil and Sydney as yet had no knowledge.

He described to them the objects of artistic interest about them, and after a quarter of an hour’s intimate talk even Phil had almost changed his mind and felt that such a delightful personage could hardly be a two-faced rogue.

They had exhausted the beauties of nature but were still strolling through the gardens when a group of Japanese army and naval officers came suddenly around a turn in the path. The midshipmen’s eyes noted their erect carriages, their breasts covered with medals, commemorating deeds of valor accomplished in two wars. The Americans saluted, and their brothers in service stepped aside politely, bowing low in their own fashion. Impey doffed his silk hat, and greeted one of their number by name, advancing to take his outstretched hand. In a second the group had passed onward.

“That was Captain Inaba, one of the brightest men in the Japanese navy,” he added as he joined the midshipmen, who had strolled ahead slowly during the short interruption. “He is the man your navy will have to be careful of in case of war. I dare say he has fought it all out and could tell you just where the battles will be and who will win.”

“You talk as if war were an accomplished fact,” Phil blurted out; the idea of the identity of Impey with the “man in the next compartment” was again strong in his mind. “I see no reason why my country and Japan should go to war. Certainly we don’t want a war with anybody, least of all Japan, whom we have helped to become one of the great world powers.”

An expression of cunning came into Impey’s face, which was unseen by the two lads, while he began to explain earnestly.

“Japan is an enigma to you Western men. Her diplomats have not a selfish drop of blood in their bodies. Every thought is for the empire. At this very moment the history of Japan for the next twenty years has been tentatively written by men like Captain Inaba, whom we have just passed. Every step has probably been considered and solved by their tacticians. Is war with America then such an impossibility?”

“War with my country would be more of an impossibility than it is,” Phil exclaimed angrily, “if those who are intriguing behind her back would only come out in the open to do their talking.” He glared fixedly at Impey.

“Your own countrymen at home are doing most of the harm,” Impey replied with an expressive shrug. “Your labor party is alienating what good feeling Japan has had for America.”

“That has been adjusted,” Sydney said, up to now content only to listen, “and the immigration question has been made a national one.”

“Yes, but the friction stirred up by the labor unions on the Pacific coast between your countrymen and Japanese immigrants has been echoed in every part of Japan.”

“And there are those here in Japan of neither nationality who take great pleasure in fanning the blaze of misunderstanding,” Phil exclaimed pointedly; but Impey appeared perfectly serene under this direct insinuation.

“I know that our newspapers have often harped on a probable war with Japan,” Phil continued more quietly, “but it’s ridiculous.” To the youngster it seemed almost ungentlemanly to talk so belligerently while they were the guests of the Japanese nation. “The United States have a very much larger fleet than Japan can maintain, and besides, she knows that if a war should occur Japan must provoke it.”

“Your country has been at peace for over fifty years,” Impey replied, “for the war with Spain was too insignificant to count, and a wise man once said that ‘a war every fifty years was an excellent tonic for a nation, if it wished to avoid becoming commercial and effeminate.’”

“Our nation will not provoke war,” Phil insisted. “There’d be no object in it. Japan is too far away for us to quarrel with.”

“Then you believe that nothing would induce the United States to go to war with Japan?” Impey asked. “Even if Japan should suddenly buy China’s new navy, for instance.”

Both midshipmen gasped in surprise.

“Where is it?” they both asked excitedly.

“On its way from Europe to China,” Impey returned, smiling blandly, “with Chinese crews and in command of Admiral Ting. You see you are not too well up on what is going on in the world,” he added pointedly.

“Can you tell me the reason of the presence of your fleet in Manila Bay?” he asked.

“Of course,” Phil replied quickly. “It came out on a practice cruise and will return within a month.”

Impey shrugged his shoulders, a knowing smile on his face that angered Phil greatly. “If Japan means to buy these ships—then look out; for if she does—it means war.”

Further talk on this dangerous topic was cut short by the discovery that the American party had driven away. The midshipmen were much chagrined to find that no carriage had been left behind for them. The Kingsleys had left a note for Mr. Impey saying that they had gone on with the ambassador and the American officers to the embassy.

“Come with me in the machine. I can set you down anywhere you say,” Impey suggested as he cranked up his waiting machine. “From this note I fear I am not included in your ambassador’s invitation,” he added.

Phil hesitated; he was still angry at himself for allowing Impey to discuss with him the relations between America and Japan. He felt that it were better to have nothing to do with this man, who was apparently leading a dual life in Tokyo—one minute advising a Japanese nobleman that America was insincere, and the next, assuring the Americans that Japan was unfriendly.

Sydney appeared to have no feeling in the matter, for he was already in the rear seat. Phil followed, the consoling thought in his mind that Impey might bear careful watching too and that this was the best way to do it.

Impey threw in the clutch, and the machine glided along the macadam roadway.

“To the American Embassy, I suppose?” he questioned over his shoulder as they turned into a narrower street. The speed did not slacken, but the horn was being sounded in warning to the startled holiday crowds that filled the street ahead of them.

Phil managed to answer in the affirmative, but his voice was lost in the wail of the syren.

The crowd ahead had quickly cleared the road, while Impey, seeing the way clear, was soon tearing at full speed down the street. The official buildings of the empire flashed past on either hand.

Opposite the navy building a great crowd had collected to do honor to one of Japan’s naval heroes.

“Hadn’t you better slow up?” Sydney asked apprehensively, as he realized the density of the crowd, but the driver of the machine gave no heed to the anxious voice behind him. The masterful way in which he guided the great car in and out among carriages, rikishas and pedestrians won the admiration of the midshipmen in spite of their dread of an accident.

“He certainly can handle her,” Phil exclaimed, “but it raises my hair to see the close shaves he makes.”

Just ahead a figure in uniform was running at the side of the roadway. It was plain that he was an official messenger, and carrying government despatches.

Phil gave a warning shout. It seemed to the lad that the machine was bearing down directly upon him—too dangerously close for comfort.

“Why doesn’t he sheer off?” Phil gasped. “That man must be deaf.”

Everything happened so quickly that no appreciable time had elapsed between the sighting of the messenger ahead and the sudden stop made by the car just as the man tried to cross in front of it.

Tingling with nervousness, the midshipmen had cried out repeatedly at Impey’s recklessness, but he turned a deaf ear. The pedestrians could all be depended upon to jump away at the first sound of the horn. Impey doubtless thought the messenger ahead would do the same; but unfortunately for his calculations the man was stone deaf, a pensioned sailor, whose hearing had been ruined in an explosion on shipboard. As the car approached, he was first conscious of its presence, but not its direction, from the information received in the faces of people about him. He suddenly stopped in his tracks bewildered. Even now all would have been well had he not done just the one thing that could lead to disaster.

“Stop her!” both lads cried in horror, but even then they realized it was too late.

With faces blanched with terror the three men sat rooted to their seats. They had seen the poor man fall directly in front of the speeding machine in a wild attempt to save himself from an unknown danger.

A cry had risen from the hundreds of bystanders. It held an ill-omened note of menace. The faces were no longer smiling, but wore a look of horror and righteous anger. The machine was completely surrounded. Phil would have leaped from the car to help the injured man, but he was met with open opposition and was forced back into his seat.

Aghast, the midshipmen saw Impey in the grasp of nearly a dozen threatening Japanese. His hands still clutched the steering wheel, and in a second his perfectly-fitting frock-coat was torn from his body. His face was white with fear, and his eyes, turned toward them, had a dumb animal appeal. To be hauled from his seat meant instant death at the hands of the outraged mob.

The car was given a sudden lurch by the efforts of several score of men who had lifted the forward end from the ground. With a shudder of horror they saw the form of the injured one carried away from under the cruel wheels.

Impey yet clutched his steering wheel and fought off the mob with a strength born of desperation. The two lads were upon their feet, expecting any moment to find themselves attacked by the Japanese, for a mob has no reasoning power, and with it the uniform of an American naval officer would have no significance.

However, there was no time to speculate upon their own dangerous position. Impey’s peril was imminently before their startled eyes. He must be saved, even if in the attempt they drew down the wrath of the mob upon their own heads. They could not see him dragged to death without making an effort in his defense.

“Help me,” Impey cried piteously.

The appeal was not unanswered. The two midshipmen cleared the front seat in a bound, and laid firm hands upon the trembling body of the terrified man.

“Hold him tight, Phil,” Sydney exclaimed as he threw himself upon those who were attempting to drag Impey from his seat. Sydney’s face was determined, only no anger was displayed, and he relied alone upon his strength to break the holds of the mob. The surprised Japanese gave way. They saw the lad’s uniform and the authoritative manner of his movements, not as an enemy but rather as a peacemaker. They withdrew before him, and waited as if making up their minds what to do.

A European, past middle age, suddenly pushed his way to Sydney’s side, just as he had stooped to pick up a long white envelope which had caught his eye as it lay on the ground nearly under the fore wheels of the car.

“That’s mine,” the newcomer exclaimed eagerly, snatching it from Sydney’s hand and thrusting it into his pocket.

“Can I help you, Mr. Impey?” he asked deferentially. Impey drew him into the car beside him, and then almost collapsed in his arms. Sydney still held the crowd at bay, when he was startled to see it of a sudden surge toward him. A fear came into his heart as he thought of how it would appear for him in uniform to be fighting a Japanese mob. Phil from his position of vantage had understood the movement, and jumped to the ground by his friend’s side just as the crowd parted and two American sailors shot through, bringing up almost in the arms of the midshipmen.

CHAPTER IV
STIRRING UP TROUBLE

“I’d like to have seen the garden fête.” The speaker arose from his seat at a desk, pushed a mass of papers aside and glanced at his watch.

“By Jove, it’s nearly over,” he added in some surprise. He put his watch back in his pocket, and took a coat and hat from a peg in the corner. “There’s my stuff on the desk. I am ashamed to be the author of it.

“Jim, I think I’ll go around and take a look at these naval officers I’ve been maligning. They’ll be coming away from the party just about the time I get there, and I’ve a card of admission here in my pocket.

“Hello! this is your coat. Why on earth don’t you have the lining sewed up? You’ll be losing something out of it before long if you don’t.”

George Randall, newspaper correspondent, hung up the other’s coat and took his own, putting it on thoughtfully.

“Jim, you haven’t any business sticking to such an uncertain game as this,” he added, a note of sympathy in his voice. “You’ve a family, and ought to be home earning honest money.”

The man addressed, probably twenty years older than the speaker, laughed uneasily.

“I was attracted by the price, the same as you were, George,” he replied regretfully. “Neither of us understood what would be expected of us, and if we weren’t so hard up we wouldn’t have accepted. But we are in it now, and there’s no turning back.”

“Some one of these mornings,” Randall said gravely, “we’re going to wake up to find we’ve been caught, and I’d hate to think what the Japs will do to us. Boil us in oil, probably. That used to be the favorite punishment for high treason in the days of the late Shoguns.

“I am frightened at Impey’s methods,” he added. “He’s playing a dangerous game, and now with this American cruiser in port he’ll have to be doubly careful.”

“Well, as long as he keeps that turbine yacht in Yokohama harbor my mind will be easy,” James Wells exclaimed, smiling at his companion’s earnestness. “The Japs don’t know that she has the speed of a torpedo boat.”

Randall’s hand was on the door-knob, but suddenly he seemed to change his mind, and walked back to where his companion was standing.

“I feel like a cur, writing the things I do when I know they are all untrue.” His voice was vehement and his young face wore a troubled look. “There’s only a filmy web of truth for all the woof of falsehood. If I were not so completely up against it, I’d chuck the whole business and go back home.”

James Wells’ face hardened slightly, and he bit his lips to suppress an emotion which the younger man’s words caused him to feel.

“Look what we’ve been doing here for the last year, nearly,” Randall continued savagely. “Arousing these slow minded Japanese to believe that the United States is sitting up nights figuring out how to rob her of her spoils from Russia. Everything that has come up we’ve turned to our ends. Those San Francisco immigrant cases we twisted about so that the Japanese believed that their people were being hung from the lamp-posts. Now we are trying to dispose of the Chinese battle-ships to the country that’s silly enough to buy them. We’ve made the Japanese believe that the American fleet is only waiting to seize them before coming north from Manila and putting Japan entirely out of business.

“The surprise to me is,” he added gravely, “that men like Captain Inaba and the Emperor’s ministers believe it.”

“When you hear a thing every day, served up to you with all kinds of fancy dressing, by and by you begin to believe there must be something to it,” Wells answered with a smile. “Your eloquence, George, is so wonderful that sometimes, ’pon my soul, I believe it myself.”

Randall smiled grimly at the implied compliment to his pen.

“It’s a low underhand game we are playing,” Randall exclaimed. “We are nice Americans to be doing such work. I’d like to see that yellow sheet, the ‘Shimbunshi,’ suppressed; then you and I would be out of a job.”

“Yes, and ten thousand a year,” Wells answered; “that’s more than we’ll ever make again; and most of mine is going to a bank at home.”

Randall heaved a sigh.

“I wish I was on to Impey’s real game,” he said thoughtfully. “He knows all the big men here. He goes up to see the Chinese ambassador and dines with him informally. He just came back from Peking the other day and let drop a remark to me in a thoughtless way that told me that he knew Lord Li, and Chang-Shi-Tung well. He learned Chinese from one of the big men there who has a seat on the Wai-Wu-Pu, the privy council to the throne of China. There’s more in it than just selling battle-ships, I’ll make a bet on that.”

Randall shook himself very much as a big dog would after coming out of the water, as he exclaimed feelingly:

“Of course there’s more in it. Impey’s stirring up a war between our country and Japan, and what attracts me is the risk we run. It’s stimulating to know that if we’re ever caught a Japanese prison and rice three times a day will be our reward. And then you see, Jim, if we can bring on this war, we’re right on the ground for war correspondents. That’s an inducement for even an old shell-back newspaper man like you.”

“The world owes each of us a living, I suppose,” Wells answered sadly. “The more risks, the better pay.”

He picked up Randall’s “copy” from his desk and glanced carelessly over it. Then a spark of interest showed in his sombre face, almost immediately supplanted by oblivious concentration. Randall gave an impatient shrug and, seeing that his friend would be absorbed for quite half an hour, he threw himself in a chair to wait patiently until the reading was over.

The minutes ticked away on the big clock opposite him, and he drummed nervously with his finger nails on the arm of his chair. His glance roamed from his companion and back to the clock.

“I told Impey I’d go to the garden fête.” His voice was in a half aside. “I don’t know how he worked it to get me an invitation.” He took it from his pocket and glanced at the big black Japanese letters with the golden chrysanthemum at the top. “I suppose it reads, ‘His Majesty the Emperor of Japan requests the extreme pleasure of Mr. George Randall’s company to a garden fête to meet Her Majesty the Empress.’ I hope the dear lady was not greatly disappointed when I didn’t appear.” His face broke into a happy smile at the ridiculousness of his thoughts. “With all the viscounts and barons, to say nothing of counts and sirs, I hope it was really a relief to Her Majesty to find I had not come.

“I wonder if I should write her and explain there was no offense, but that I became so absorbed in something I was doing, to put it plainly, to make trouble for her government, that I quite forgot the time of day. But I am sure Impey made up for my absence. That fellow is a wizard, the way he pulls the wool over people’s eyes. He’s as thick as fleas with the American ambassador—and, by Jove!” Randall stopped his spoken introspection to whistle softly, “even the ambassador’s daughter has been taken in. He has a picturesque part in this show. I believe I’d like to take his end. I am not allowed to see; I only write from notes furnished me, like a blind novelist.”

“What’s all that rot you’re talking?” Wells had finished his reading and was regarding Randall, a half smile of amusement on his earnest face. “Do you know, George, you ought to be doing something worth while. This thing,” tapping the manuscript he was reading, “is a gem. How can you do it? The ‘Shimbunshi’ will make a big hit in its morning edition, and just at the time when Japan is entertaining our officers. To-morrow the American captain is to lunch with His Majesty.”

Randall heaved a sigh and rose from his chair. “Jim, if I could get out of this thing honorably, I’d do it to-day, but I can’t go back to that little old town in Indiana without money. They’ve got me here solid. Good-bye, Jim; I am going down the street and talk to some of those clean looking American sailors I saw this morning. I am just hungry to hear them talk. You’re such an old musty bookworm that you don’t know what it is to pine for the latest slang from little old New York.”

After his companion had gone, James Wells sat silent at his desk. His mind was reviewing the last few years of his life, conjured out of the almost forgotten past by Randall’s boyish outburst.

Little by little his friend was making him see their calling through younger eyes. He was himself an old newspaper man. All news to him was merchandise to sell to the highest bidder. To highly color it, to make it more readable, was part of the game. No idea of being a traitor to his country or a spy had ever entered his even, methodical, sober thoughts until this youngster had sowed the insidious seeds. Was he really harming his country? He had never thought of it in that light. Every country was advancing in military and naval development and he had been put at the head of the Tokyo office of a newspaper syndicate whose avowed purpose was to collect all manner of news affecting the armaments and also the political relations between countries. If he thought that this syndicate had for its aim to strain the relations to the breaking point of two naturally friendly countries, one of which he still considered his own, why then he would quit, and go back to a minor position on a big New York paper which he knew would always be open for him. He had not always been shown the effusions of Randall. His work was to systematically arrange the information received so that Impey and Randall could use it. He picked up George’s manuscript and let his eyes wander slowly over the scrawl.

“It seems peculiarly paradoxical that a cruiser of the United States navy, commanded by an officer who until recently was at the head of the Bureau of Naval Intelligence, should be sent to Japan just at the time when the American battle-ship fleet having sailed for the Orient via the south of Africa, has arrived in Manila Bay. And is it less of a paradox that one of her officers is the inventor of a torpedo which is rumored to have the greatest range of any yet tried in any navy? Again another officer is known to be an experienced aeronaut, having been until recently the instructor with naval flying machines at Washington. If one will take the roster of officers and give it a close scrutiny he doubtless will discover that every method of prying into the naval preparedness of Japan for war is represented by an expert.”

Wells looked up from his reading and there was a flash of fire in his steel-gray eyes. “George is a darned hypocrite. He had the nerve to write this, and then preach to me about our dishonorable trade.

“I wonder how much of this is true. Impey doubtless furnished him with the data.” He seized the sheets, and read on while the clock ticked the seconds slowly away. Finally he finished, put the copy into an envelope, and struggled into his coat. “This must be in the ‘Shimbunshi’s’ office this afternoon if it is to make the sensation intended,” he muttered grimly to himself as he pulled his slouch hat over his thick hair. “I’ll make sure and take it myself,” he ended decidedly as he shoved the letter into his inside overcoat pocket and buttoned it tight before he issued forth into the street.

About the same time two sailormen were striding along one of the main thoroughfares of Tokyo. They both towered head and shoulders above the people about them.

“It’s been nearly five years since I first visited our little Japanese brothers. They’re a curious lot, but, Bill, there ain’t nothing soft about ’em.”

Boatswain’s Mate John O’Neil glanced as he spoke at his companion, Seaman Bill Marley, both from the “Alaska.”

“In that war with the Ruskis they were right up to snuff,” he continued, as they strolled along aimlessly. “They saw their work and they went for it, and stayed on the job until it was finished.”

The two man-of-war’s men had come to Tokyo on the special train for a forty-eight hours’ liberty in that Eastern capital, and were enjoying themselves thoroughly. Everywhere they met welcoming smiles, and even the little urchins playing in the streets stopped, and raising their tiny hands aloft, cried “Banzai” as they passed.

The day was balmy; the air laden with perfume of many flowers. In the shops they had seen many beautiful things and had spent a portion of their slender pocket money on such articles as took their fancy, marveling the while upon the smallness of the price.

“Say, Jack, look here; all this war talk is soap-suds, ain’t it?” Bill Marley asked.

O’Neil contemplated the back of a man a half a block or so farther up the street before replying.

“He’s in a big hurry about something,” he muttered half aloud, and Bill Marley asked, “What’s that?” for he had heard O’Neil speak, and thought it might be an answer to his question.

“Oh, about this war talk,” O’Neil responded, his mind reverting from the stranger ahead, whom he made out to be a European in a big hurry to get somewhere. “I don’t take no stock in it. There ain’t nothing that I can see we’ve got to fight for, unless it’s just to see who’s the best man. This war business cost too many people too much money. These Japs are nice little fellows; they like us and they want to show us they like us. They are mighty proud of their knowledge of fighting, too, and they’ve got a code of honor they call ‘Bushido,’[1] or something like it, which means, as far as I can find out, ‘If any one insults you, and you can’t lick him, cut yourself open with a sharp knife.’ Now fellows with ideas like that ain’t to be monkeyed with. If we treat ’em square and be careful about treading on this ‘Bushy porcupine,’ they’ll continue to yell ‘banzai’ at us, but if we get funny and put it over them in some way, they’re apt to tackle even us.”

“And if we lick them,” Bill Marley asked, “then I suppose they’ll take to the tall timbers and disembowel themselves?”