"I haven't eaten for a whole day,—that is apart from the melon," he grumbled, looking down at his thin body, and scratching his arms and hands morosely. "It is possible to die of starvation even with food growing around you."
Now he jumped up, and went rustling through the grain. In a land of poverty—where the struggle for existence is bitter and keen—not to eat is a confession of failure.
There were acres and acres of the same field; and as he threaded his way forward he cursed the owners for their greed in tilling so much land. But at length the great field ceased; and he came out suddenly on to a rutted roadway and saw in the distance a tumble-down little red building. It was a country shrine. He studied it critically for a long while, and then remembered, from the manner in which three trees grew beside it, having seen it before. It was about twenty li—seven miles counted in English—to the southeast of the capital. He had come twenty li since he had left the last city gate.
Reassured, he went up to the closed doors without further hesitation.
"Lao-ho-shang (old harmonious and esteemed one)," he loudly called, hammering with his fists on the rotting woodwork, "a foodless man is at your gateway. Distribute your goodness. Lao-ho-shang, lao-ho-shang, come to your door!"
He repeated his call more and more vigorously; and presently there was the sound of slow footsteps and the gate was cautiously unbarred. But it was only opened an inch or so by a priest who was neither old nor young, and who was clad in a garment of faded saffron edged with black.
The priest eyed him suspiciously for a long time and at last commenced this interrogatory:
"How far have you journeyed?"
"Many miles from the South, many miles indeed."
"And what is your purpose in journeying when all is unsettled?"