“No mis-take. My honorable master never make mis-take.”
“Oh, don’t he? Well, tell me this. How long do I live here—on the house?”
“In the house?” corrected Kito gravely. “I not know. Two, t’ree, fo’ weeks’ mebbe more.”
“Mebbe nothing!” roared the irate Fibsy. “Stay here all that time! Why, you yellow-gilled crab—”
Fibsy paused, for the Japanese merely lifted his hand and flexed his long yellow fingers in a suggestive way, that was decidedly unpleasant.
“There, there, I didn’t mean anything. Oh, well, if you wanta be fussy!”
Fibsy saw at once the utter uselessness of trying to threaten, cajole or reason with the Oriental. Though he looked no older than the boy, he was a man, and one skilled in his country’s athletic and wrestling methods.
Without further words, Kito waited for Fibsy to finish his supper, and then took away the tray, locking his prisoner in the room.
This went on for three whole days. Fibsy was comfortably housed, all his physical wants provided for, and Kito even brought him a pile of old magazines to read, but no further information was given him as to the reason for his imprisonment.
By the fourth day the nervous strain had begun to tell on the captive boy. No amount of thinking could reveal the reason of his plight, and no theory account for it. Hours at a time he tried to escape or tried to plan some means that might lead to freedom, but there was no chance for ingenious attempt, or possibility of conquering or eluding Kito.