“No, you don’t!” Fibsy sprang at the Japanese and fully expected to land his clenched fist at its destination, when instead, he gave a shriek of pain, as Kito deftly caught the descending arm and with a peculiarly dextrous twist, almost,—it seemed to Fibsy,—broke it.
“I had a hunch I was pretty good,” the injured one said, ruefully, “but I hand it to you! Show me how, will you, It’s that thing they call juicy jitsoo, ain’t it?”
“Jiu jitsu, yaes. Now you know who goin’ be who? eh? What you thing?”
“I think you’re a wonder, an’ you gotter crack me wise to that some time, but not now. Now I’m mainly int’rested in gettin’ outa here.”
“Yaes?” And the Japanese looked mildly amused.
This made Fibsy serious. “Say,” he said, without bluster, for Kito was gazing at him steadily, “tell a feller a few things, can’t you? Who is you master?”
“I thing I not say it good. This United States names too much for me. So I carry card, this-away.” Kito drew from his pocket a worn card and held it out for inspection.
“Mr. James Brent Auchincloss,” it read.
“Huh,” said Fibsy, “don’t wonder it’s too much for you, son. But looky here, you’ve got in wrong, somehow. I don’t know Mr. Autchincloss, myself. Lemme go, there’s a pal,—an’ I’ll call it square.”
“Aexcuse; my orders to log you in,” and this time, Kito slid out of the door, and the next instant Fibsy heard the key grate in the lock.